


The Passenger

by burlesque_articulation



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, I'll toss in some extra content warnings throughout the fic as well, M/M, Minor Character Death, RQBB2020, bcuz AO3 keeps reordering my tags on me and making them completely illegible, brief descriptions of severe injury, brief periods of memory loss, canon typical descriptions of death, dumb shit do happen, elements of existential dread, major character death (he gets better), tags make the fic sound a lot more serious then it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 92,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burlesque_articulation/pseuds/burlesque_articulation
Summary: Peter "doesn't describe himself as a thinker, as he actively avoids such an action" Lukas meets Oliver "just wants a nap" Banks, who is masquerading as Antonio "is definitely a marine biologist, trust" Blake, as a single odd circumstance brings them together aboard the Tundra as she begins her voyage towards the Panama Canal. The ship's final destination? Point Nemo.The situation aboard the cargo ship only grows more odd and overtly strange as time passes, and yet very few questions seem to be answered. But it's as they say, some mysterious don't require a resolution. Often times, is it not simply enough to say, "wouldn't it be fucked up if--" and to promptly leave it at that?Written for the Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020!
Relationships: Oliver Banks/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/Elias Bouchard (past)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Prologue: First Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, has it really been a year since I last posted on my AO3??? Wowie.
> 
> Anywho... I'm back! This time with my submission to the Rusty Quill Big Bang! It was so much fun working on this, and (like always) I'm glad I actually managed to finish on time!!! 
> 
> First things first, big s/o to my artist emperio! You can find more of their amazing work-- [HERE](https://twitter.com/emperiocism)!!!
> 
> And of course another big s/o to my beta [Cherry](http://wildcherrylime.tumblr.com) who put up with way to much bs from me... 
> 
> Also this started out as a crackfic for a crackpairing, but... 90k and 5 drafts later... I don't think this is just a crackpairing anymore, lads.
> 
> Anyways! As always, enjoy the read!

When Oliver first began making his rounds dockside, he really hadn’t expected anything to come from it. He wasn’t exactly loaded or anything, so even if he did find a sea-faring vessel willing to take him aboard; it wasn’t like he could pay for it. And the docks could be thick with tendrils most days.

Usually though, when most of the ships had weighed anchor on the weekends, the docks were still, and it was actually quite peaceful; with only the occasional group of pulsing tendrils creeping up from the water's edge that made it clear of what was to come. That some time, in the very near future, this would be the spot someone would lose their life. 

Still, it wasn’t like Oliver had much else going for him. And sometimes, in the very early morning, when the ships were, well, _shipping out_ , he got that brief feeling of longing, as he imagined what it would be like being on one of those vessels, heading out towards a point where no one else would be.

But as it started getting later into the evening, he found himself in a dismal looking bar, staring at a still full pint. He _really_ needed to come up with a new way to spend his free time. This was just _sad_. Of course, now Oliver was almost entirely wrapped up in his own self-deprecating mantra to notice the bartender that was trying to get his attention.

“Hm? Yes?” He asked, clearing his throat and repeatedly telling himself Not To Be Weird.

“Heard you been asking around the docks about the boats. Got an odd job, do ya?” The bartender spoke in a somewhat hushed tone, and Oliver found himself leaning in. Which seemed odd, given that there was practically no one else in the place anyways. Maybe they thought he was someone he wasn’t? Who could say.

“Yeah, something like that…” He tried to sound… nonplussed. Like he was walking head first into a Totally Normal Conversation.

The bartender nodded to themself, then jutted their chin toward the area of the bar behind Oliver. “Might want to try the man over there then. Captains a ship called the _Tundra_ . Just came in, and I hear he don’t mind the occasional, eh, _odd job_ , y’know.”

Oliver had absolutely _no idea_ what they meant, but to avoid giving that away, he turned his face, peering over his shoulder to where the bartender had indicated while asking, “Oh yeah? And what can you tell me about this captain?” He tried to sound like he knew what he was talking about as he caught a quick glimpse of a man sitting alone in one of the booths in the back. But his attention was soon drawn back to the bartender when they responded.

The bartender had shrugged, only offering, “He’s got a ship, you need one of those, right?”

“Right… but, has he got a name? Been… sailing for long?” These all sounded like reasonable, and easy-answered questions.

“Been sailing ‘bout as long as I’ve been bartending here. Maybe longer.” Alright, odd answer, but the bartender did have that look to them like they’d never seen a day that wasn’t spent standing behind the bar. “Quiet type, though. Gotta be careful ‘round them, but if you name the right price, you won’t have to keep hanging ‘round the docks every other day, will ya?” The bartender spoke while pulling a glass out and eyeing it, before giving it a wipe down. And since Oliver was still leaning against the bar, he could see the mess of cobwebs stuck to the bottom of the glass. Which, gross, but okay.

“Right,” Oliver repeated, leaning himself back on his stool, glancing back over his shoulder again, this time taking a bit longer in sizing up the Captain. Given that the man was sitting down, and facing towards a window, Oliver really couldn't tell much about the man physically, save that he had a bit of scruff on his face (or at least on one side; so it was probably safe to assume he probably had a full beard, though short and we'll maintained), and was really pale; like, so pale that the only thing that actually seemed whiter than the man's face was the guy's own hair. This only really stood out because from what Oliver had been able to tell from all the other sailors he'd seen over the last month or so, was that they all appeared to have some sort of tan from working on the boats. Maybe because the guy was a captain, he just didn't get a lot of sun? Regardless, the man seemed entirely distracted by the window overlooking the docks, so Oliver didn’t really have to worry about drawing his attention from across the bar as he stared for a bit. “So…” Oliver turned back to the barkeep. “When you say ‘odd jobs’... you wouldn’t have a general idea what that would entail, in regards to this captain in particular? Just want to get a good idea of his work history, see if he might be a good… fit for my needs?” Nope. No, he did not like how that came out. But the bartender seemed to not take it any which way.

“Don’t have any receipts, if that’s what you’re looking for. But word is, he’s done some work with that Salesa fella once or twice. Don’t get much more shady then that, I say.”

 _Salesa…_ if the name rang a bell in Oliver’s head, it was a small one. Which is to say, he had no idea what the hell the bartender was saying. “Okay then, right. So… still haven’t gotten a name yet, though?”

The bartender leaned toward him, and Oliver had the brief intention of leaning _away_ , “His name’s Peter Lukas. But if he asks who sent you over there, it wasn’t me.”

 _Hmm, that sounds real bad_ . “Great! Thanks for the help, or, uh- the _not_ help?”

The bartender retreated back again, nodding sagely before heading farther down the bar where someone had come in during their conversation and taken roost.

The little bell from before was definitely ringing now, but this time in alarm, somewhere in the back of Oliver’s mind. Carefully, he cast his gaze back towards the sea captain sitting by the window. This would be a _terrible_ idea... _But_ , there was probably no harm in asking, right? Just, getting a lay of the land. Best case scenario, perhaps this Captain Lukas would have other, less… _sketchy_ contacts that Oliver could try his luck with. And worst case scenario, Oliver could get a new weekend-hobby that didn’t include ever being near the docks again. After all, the idea that he’d even be able to convince _anyone_ to take him all the way to Point Nemo was such a long shot anyways.

But first things first. He waved a hand for the barkeeps attention, “Um, sorry, one more question actually-”

* * *

He liked this bar. Whenever he came in off the ocean, it was always quiet. A few loyal patrons were usually the only ones about, and even still the place would feel empty. Devoid of life. He could sit for hours, mind occupied by watching the waves roll against the shore down by the pier as he contemplated where next he would direct his ship. His own little, more personal, ritual, that he quite enjoyed. At least, normally he would.

“Hi there.”

Peter Lukas frowned, but counted up to five before he carefully pulled his gaze from the window and let them rest on a man that was standing across from him, a mug and pint in his hands and a tight lipped smile across his face. Peter didn’t say anything, only leveling his gaze on the stranger. There were a few odd things about this encounter that lent a hand to why Peter didn't immediately give any sort of response. He could admit with certainty that he hadn't noticed when the man had come in, or even recall if he'd been in the bar when Peter had entered. Which was odd, given that Peter was always hyper-aware of people, especially when they came within a certain radius of him; yet this man seemed to have appeared entirely out of thin air. Perhaps a little taller than average, black, with frizzy, curly hair that was loosely pulled back in a way that a few dark curls had sprung free.

“Right, um… this is.. For you.” The stranger spoke with a soft cockney accent as he set the mug down, and when Peter made no move to take it, or even look at it, the man then proceeded to press a finger against the side of it and _slide_ it across the table towards him. “Apparently, you are a black coffee type of bloke, so, that’s what that is.” He gave the mug one last poke before retracting his hand to cradle his own glass in both. Peter still remained silent.

“Um, may I sit down?” He tilted his head toward the empty seat across from Peter. And just as Peter was finally ready to form a very prompt “no.” the man was already plopping down across from him. “Fantastic, thanks.”

Rather than letting a scowl cross his face, his jaw tightened. But again, just as he was ready to speak, the man now sitting opposite him was already rambling through another sentence.

“Look, um, sorry- haven’t really done this before- I mean, haven’t needed too, I guess? But, anyways- I have… well, I guess you could call it a proposition of sorts?” The man bit his lip, as if he genuinely wasn’t sure that was the right word.

Peter couldn’t stop a brief look of perplexity from crossing his face. How does one exactly _respond_ to such a bold statement? “I am not in the mood for company.”

The man seemed to be just starting another sentence when Peter had cut him off, and just kind of tilted his head slightly to the side, a look of misunderstanding clear on his features. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

Peter was fairly certain he did, but yet again, just as he was about to speak, the man was already talking. Twice a coincidence, thrice on purpose?

“Look, you’ve got a ship right? Been sailing awhile, too. I need… transport, I guess is the term- again, haven’t really needed to do this before.” He shifted in his seat, fingers tapping idly against the side of his glass as he spoke.

“You-- pardon?”

“Yeah, yes.” He seemed to be talking mostly to himself for a moment, before settling his gaze on Peter again. “I work with one of the Universities, you see. I, um, I’m a marine biologist, and… I’ve been looking to do an expedition, but I can’t get the proper funding for it. Thing is, all my research has been suggesting that this is the perfect time of year for the trip, so- I figure I might not be able to go _officially_ , but if I can just get there, even if it’s on my own time, and paid, of course, using my own expenses--”

Throughout the entire, and fairly rushed, spiel, he continued to tap his nails against his pint; and not with any sort of rhythm, either. Peter had always considered himself a patient person, but the constant _tink, tink, tink_ , paired with the absolutely nonsense coming out of the man’s mouth did not pair well. In a swift movement, Peter grabbed the man’s wrist and held it down against the table, away from the damn glass. “You are a very obnoxious person.”

The man’s eyes widened, staring at where Peter still firmly gripped his wrist. “Um. Yes, I do get that on occasion.” The stranger admitted, then seemed to wait for Peter to speak; or maybe waiting for Peter to let go of his wrist. “But, as I was saying--”

“No, I think I’ve heard quite enough actually,” Peter let go of the man’s wrist, sitting back against his seat. There was one thing that stood out during the man’s rambling. He seemed entirely taken with _getting_ to a place, but hadn’t mentioned coming _back_. And his wording seemed to imply that he didn’t represent a group- but this was an individual trip.

The man noticeably deflated, but also didn’t seem surprised. “Right, of course.”

“For curiosity’s sake, though- where exactly is it you were hoping to go? You never did mention.” 

The man squirmed in his seat, as if he thought he could go through the whole conversation without ever having to say the words out-right.“Hm? Oh, um… P- Point Nemo? If you’ve heard of it.”

His brow furrowed. He had, in fact, heard of Point Nemo. Had even considered the potential uses a place so far from any landmass could serve for certain purposes. But it was also in the south of the _Pacific_ _Ocean_ , and Peter rarely found himself sailing anywhere beyond the Atlantic. “And you want to go to the _oceanic pole of inaccessibility_ , because?”

“Um, research purposes?” It sounded like a question. And while Peter wasn’t exactly a ‘people-person’ nor had a history with getting to know anyone ever, he had the uncanny feeling that it may also have been a _lie._

Peter tilted his head slightly, thinking about a few things at once when he asked, “And how many of your colleagues would be interested in going with you?”

“None.” He answered immediately, then began biting his lip when he seemed to realize he may have given his response a little too fast.

Peter mulled the request over in his head, pairing it with the other things the man had said. “So you’re looking to head out to the most remote place on earth all by yourself?”

“Well, not exactly. I don’t exactly know how to sail, which is why I’m talking to the captain of a ship that supposedly would also have a crew.”

Peter considered the man’s tone before saying, “The crew will have their jobs to do, and socializing isn't a priority aboard the Tundra. Keeping to one’s self, is. The Tundra also isn’t a passenger ship, generally speaking, There’s none of those luxuries afforded aboard such ships on the Tundra.”

The man had his fingers steepled in front of him as he nodded slowly. “So… hypothetically speaking, if your ship did have a passenger, they would be under no obligation to socialize with the crew, and be, more or less, expected to keep entirely to themself?”

Which was literally what Peter had just said. “Yes.” A tension Peter hadn’t noticed before leeched from the man’s shoulders as if he’d just been given the best news of his life. “The Tundra leaves for Colón in the morning , 8 o’clock we weigh anchor. Everyone is expected to be on board by 6 o’clock sharp.”

“Colón?”

“Panama.” Peter clarified, somewhat reluctantly. “We’ll have to pass through the canal to make any sort of decent time.”

“Oh…” Then a sudden, and quite genuine, look of surprise crossed the man’s face as he seemed to only just be picking up on the implication of Peter’s words. “Wait- does that mean-” 

“Unless of course leaving tomorrow is too soon for you. In which case, the Tundra won’t be returning to the area for roughly two months. But we rarely head in the same direction twice.”

“Oh! No, no I will be there- tomorrow, 6am- hell, I’ll be at the port by a quarter to 6 if that works better, 5am even?”

Peter didn’t bother humouring the remark with an answer. For someone so keen in heading to the quote, _“loneliest place on earth_ ” he certainly didn’t seem like someone who would be able to handle an extended moment’s silence. And Peter, of course, assumed that when the man piped up again without waiting for a response from Peter, it proved his point.

“Right, 6am no later. I’ll, um. Right, th- thanks? Um... okay, then.” The man stood abruptly and made his way to the exit without pause.

What an odd person. Though, he supposed in the end, it really wouldn’t matter what sort of personal quirks the stranger had.

His gaze shifted back towards the window, looking out over the pier once more. Idly, Peter reached for the coffee, not even noticing if it was still warm, or if it had gone cold already, when he took a gentle sip from the mug. The Tundra hadn’t seen Panama in nearly a year now, so it would make for a decent change in the ship’s recent routine. 

Below the window, heading out past the docks, Peter caught sight of the man whose name he hadn’t gotten. The man paused briefly, staring out towards the water with what might have been a wistful look, before turning up the collar of his jacket and heading towards the city streets. As Peter followed the man’s movements, he quickly found his view blocked out by a thick web in the corner of the window, and sitting at its center was a long-legged, and fairly large, brown spider, casually twirling what looked like a caught fly, slowly but surely encasing it in spider’s thread.

Peter frowned. “Ew,” he muttered under his breath, but did nothing about it.


	2. I. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tundra begins her journey across the Atlantic.

The morning was crisp, and cool; the sky surprisingly free of the usual clouds that hung heavy in the early morning. It was what most people in the area might describe as the perfect morning. Peter Lukas could have gone for a bit more mist coming off the ocean, but it was fine. He actually found himself in a rather good mood. 

With the accounted-for crew getting to work below deck, or still settling in, he found it the perfect time to walk the deck for a bit of fresh air before their soon departure. He was actually tickled by the fact that it was likely the ship would weigh anchor before their mysterious passenger ever managed to make it aboard, seeing as Peter had lied through his teeth about when that was actually going to happen.

Thus, he was uncertain how to feel when he saw the same stranger from the day before walking carefully up the ship’s brow, looking entirely out of place when he stepped onto the deck. Peter had never actually gotten the man’s name, but he did look like someone who might be a marine biologist, wearing comfortable looking khakis tucked into heavy work boots, and the same light jacket from the night before over a casual dark coloured button up. Of course, when the man gave the deck a cursory glance, he didn’t notice Peter standing across the deck from him. He also didn’t seem to notice when Tadeas Dahl, the first mate, came out from around one of the shipping containers strapped to the main deck and walked directly up to him. Peter had only briefly caught a look of confusion across Tadeas' face when he approached the stranger. And since Peter had neglected to mention to his first mate that he’d agreed to having a passenger aboard the ship, he was quite thankful to go unseen for a few more moments. This would likely make for an interesting and confusing conversation between Tadeas and the stranger, though.

It took Tadeas three (3) tries to finally get the stranger’s attention, who seemed almost entranced, staring over the rail of the ship with a contorted look of worry etched across his face. “Hm? Oh! Terribly sorry,” the man seemed to give himself both a mental shake, as well as a physical one, holding out a hand, and then speaking in a rushed and much quieter tone. Which was a shame, because it meant Peter wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop from the distance he stood at. Though, he could discern the little detail of the man looking somewhat downcast when Tadeas completely ignored his offered hand, and thus retracted it back to hold the take-away coffee cup in both hands, where he quickly began tapping his thin fingers against the side of the cup.

Tadeas, for his part, seemed thoroughly unconvinced by whatever the stranger had said, it was becoming clear by the stranger’s falling expression that the first mate was likely leading up to tell him to leave the ship entirely. And while the idea of letting Tadeas turn the man away was amusing, it seemed a shame to let such a…  _ willing victim _ get away. So Peter emerged from his spot, putting on a mask of friendly competence to intercede. 

“Glad to see you’ve made it,” Peter interjected into the conversation, and was oh-so-deeply amused when the still unnamed man seemed to nearly jump out of his skin at the sudden addition of another person into the little chat.

“Oh, yes. C-Captain Lukas, how very nice to see you again.” The man’s nails tapped nervously against the cup in his hands.

“And to you, though I don’t believe I had the pleasure of your name yet, have I? Such an oversight- perhaps if I’d gotten it, I would have remembered to inform the first mate of your joining us.”

Embarrassment was writ across the man’s face as he cleared his throat, “ah, yes. Sorry, I wasn’t quite in the best of… um, head spaces? When we met the other day, I do apologize,” though the man’s eyes remained trained on the ground as he spoke, Peter still managed to catch a glimpse at the dark bags under his eyes; the same ones that seemed to only have grown heavier since last Peter saw him. “I’m Antonio, Antonio Blake,” the man hesitantly offered a hand to Peter; no doubt uncertain if Peter would refuse it in the same manner his first mate had.

“Antonio; allow me to welcome you properly to the Tundra,” Peter took the man’s hand in his own, before wrapping his other hand over top mid shake, and holding Antonio’s one hand firmly between both of his own. Just a  _ pinch _ of pressure.

Tadeas, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange now politely cleared his throat, “well, we’ll need to get Mr. Blake settled in somewhere then.” Bringing the conversation back around to the priorities.

Peter nodded his agreeance, finally releasing Antonio’s hand and taking a small step back. “Of course, there’s the spare cabin on B deck, the one on the left? It should suit our passenger’s needs nicely.”

When Tadeas met his gaze there was a solid moment where his brow was slightly furrowed, before his face was back to its usual lack of expression. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that Tadeas was inclined to disagree with his captain's suggestion. “Understood, I’ll show our passenger to his cabin.”; but Peter just shook his head.

“Nonsense, you’ve got the crew to keep in order, the least I can do is get our passenger settled as penance for forgetting to even bring up the whole ordeal."

Tadeas looked briefly taken aback once again, before a flicker of understanding passed his eyes. He eyed Antonio with a spot of curiosity before clearly deciding that the less he knew about this, the better. “Captain,” he nodded his goodbye, then took his leave from the main deck without another word. Peter had always liked Tadeas; the man did exceptional work, and never complained. Nor did he ask questions; which was a rare find.

Turning back to the Tundra’s new passenger, who looked very much out of his depth (and possibly just a bit queasy), Peter flashed a bright smile, “So, Antonio, let’s get you settled in.”

\--- --- ---

They weighed anchor just after 6am, when the sun was just an orange-glowing half-circle on the horizon. And Peter was yet to come to a conclusion as to how he felt about the Tundra’s recent passenger. Of course, he had plenty of things to occupy his mind with, rather than focusing on this stranger;  _ Antonio Blake _ . The name itself seemed well suited to the man, but Peter couldn’t quite put a finger as to why he felt that way. Still, he made a note to keep an eye out for him when he made his rounds on the Tundra. Luckily, there were certain aspects about Peter’s character that allowed him to traverse from one end of the ship to the other without ever being noticed by the sparse crew that worked there. Saying he was capable of being “invisible” wasn’t quite right of course. He simply was able to go  _ unseen _ .

It would later become apparent, about 2 days out, that Peter might not be the only one aboard the ship that could evade detection; as not once did he come across the passenger. This was… odd, to say the least. Peter had expected to at least catch some glimpse of Antonio idly wandering the quiet inner corridors of the House, looking out of place and maybe even concerned at how such a large ship managed to be so  _ silent _ . But Peter did not get the satisfaction of seeing this; as far as he could tell, Antonio hadn’t left his cabin since boarding. Which didn’t seem right at all. It was… concerning, perhaps?

That is until the Tundra was 5 days out from the shore, and Peter finally caught sight of the odd man. It was about 0300, and Peter had merely been on his usual walk through the quiet inner corridors, ever vigilant that his crew followed the obvious protocols; and keeping track of anyone that seemed… just a little too uncomfortable with stark silence of the ship. That was when Peter spotted Antonio leaving his cabin; and while someone might assume he was sneaking, it was in fact simply that the man hadn’t much sound to his normal walking pace. Just naturally light on his feet as he moved normally down the corridor, seeming to already have gotten the hang of walking on the ever-swaying ship. Peter followed him.

Antonio, when on his ‘supposed’ own, suddenly didn’t appear all that odd. He walked like anyone else, threw idle glances down the occasional break in the long hallways he passed, but walked like someone who definitely knew where they were going. It soon became apparent that he was heading to the galley; ascending the stairs with an odd sort of grace. Antonio was surprisingly nimble; at full height he had to be 5’10, but had a lean frame that made you think him taller.

To anyone else; it would definitely be creepy to use one’s powers of “invisibility”, so to speak, to stalk someone around a ship; however, Peter was not self-aware enough to really put a term on what he was doing. Surely he’d figure it out at some point ( _ he would not _ ).

It was still fairly early in the morning, so there wasn’t anyone around the dining areas, but that didn’t seem to bother Antonio. He headed straight into the kitchen area, only pausing to knock briefly on the door, though he opened it as he did so. “Morning, Loreto,” he spoke in a cheery tone, entering the kitchen, and then proceeding to push the door closed behind him, leaving Peter to stand outside the kitchen, not exactly able to enter after him. While it was, to a degree,  _ possible _ , it wasn’t without risk. Peter wasn’t exactly familiar with the layout of the kitchen area, nor who might be inside and where they might be standing. And due to these factors he wouldn’t be able to be immediately unseen, either.

This was, as one might assume, somewhat upsetting. 

But with little else to do, he decided to simply wait it out, returning to the hall instead of staying near the doorway. And surely enough, no more than 5 minutes later, Antonio was coming out of the kitchen, looking bashful with a tight lipped smile as he said his goodbyes to the cook. In one hand was a single mug, and in the other, a small tray with 3 reusable travel mugs, which he carried gently, but with grace as he headed back out towards the stairs. Peter had assumed he was perhaps heading back to his cabin, and thus decided to keep the pace ahead of him, only occasionally looking over his shoulder as Antonio fiddled with keeping the tray of drinks level. It was at the landing between the B deck, and the bridge that Peter paused, waiting to see how Antonio would try to get through the doorway again, having closed this one behind him on his way down.

But to his complete surprise, Antonio continued to turn, to head up towards the bridge, nearly slamming directly into Peter, who only just managed to maneuver himself out of the way-- thus Antonio only managed to brush his arm against Peter’s chest, which gave the man a startle, as he turned with a look of surprise etched across his face, eyes darting around to look for what had come into contact with his arm, given that he’d been going up the center of the staircase. Peter didn’t even breathe, despite that not really affecting how unseen he was. It was close to a solid minute before Antonio seemed to shrug off the weird mishap, and continued up the stairs. This time, Peter followed a considerable distance behind him.

As Antonio reached the top of the stairs, and stood at the door to the bridge, he only needed to nudge it gently with his foot, and the door swung open. Which clearly meant that  _ someone _ hadn’t closed it properly. Thus, Peter assumed there would be no one on the bridge, perhaps-- instead, there were the usual 3 crew members-- all of whom Peter couldn’t even begin to guess the names of.

“Morning,” Antonio spoke in the same cheery tone he’d used down in the kitchen, but this time instead of being greeted by a single grunt, he was greeted with one half-hearted nod, a somewhat pained smile, and complete disregard from the helmsman. “How’re things? Any bumps in the night, eh?” It seemed to be a joke, but it didn’t land if it were.

Thus, he seemed to decide to cut the chit-chat and moved into the room, over to the uncluttered and barren table in front of the windows overlooking the top deck. One of the crew let out a small sigh, but still reached for one of the travel mugs, only to have Antonio tut quickly.

“Oh! Um, actually, I thought I’d give you all a bit of treat, so, uh…” Antonio picked up the thermos with a red lid, and handed it to the crew member that had caved first. “This one’s for you- managed to convince Loreto to part with some of their hazelnut coffee for you. And for you, sirdame, I’ve got your tea- a nice earl grey, black just the way you like it- and for the man at the wheel, I managed to get you some of that darker roast that you prefer; only a pinch of milk in it, though- I remembered that.”

The helmsman stared at the grey travel mug that was held out to him, before taking it with a neutral expression and nodding silently his thanks. The woman with the hazelnut coffee grunted her own thanks, and the one with the tea looked distressed, and seemed to be trying very hard not to say anything. It was almost funny to watch.  _ Almost _ . Except it definitely wasn’t something that should be happening aboard Peter’s ship.

“Thanks,” the tea drinker mumbled their thanks, and Peter’s eyes narrowed on them.

The helmsman exhaled, before jutting his chin to the door to the side of the room. “Out wit’ cha, Mr. Blake. We’ve got work to do.”

“Right, yeah- ‘course,” Antonio smiled gently, taking his own mug in both hands before turning to the door that led out onto the bridge’s small upper deck, which overlooked the main deck, and most of the ship in general. Which was even  _ more _ baffling. Not only had none of the crew been phased by the fact that a passenger had come aboard the bridge, but they seemed entirely used to him skipping out onto the bridge’s overlook. Where the  _ hell _ was Tadeas-- there was no way  _ he _ was allowing this.

Realizing now that the door to the bridge still remained open, Peter decided now was the perfect time to reveal himself, softly clearing his throat as he stepped on to the bridge and gently closed the door behind him.

The three crew members all snapped their attention to him; yet none of them actually met his eye. At least they could get that right, hm? “Good morning.”

“Captain,” the helmsman was the only one to greet him, the other’s merely shuffled their feet slightly, while eyes remained trained on the floor.

“Crew,” Peter responded in a cool tone, letting his eyes drift over them all one by one. Only the little tea drinker made the mistake of looking up when his eyes rested on them. Thus, he decided to speak to them directly, since they seemed to want attention so bad. “I don’t suppose you could explain why the door to the bridge was left open as it was? Seemed so odd, I simply had to check and see how things were.”

Trapped in a locking gaze, the crew member didn't seem able to look away. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” They spoke with a small voice, and accent that wasn’t easily placed as being from anywhere in particular.

“Correct answer,” he let a warm (very, very cold) smile spread across his face, before allowing his whole posture to relax somewhat. “As you were then.”

“Sir.” The three of them chorused, before all turning their attention back to the jobs they had been busying themselves with.

Of course, they all still remained particularly on edge as Peter made it apparent he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Instead, he would use this as another excuse to nitpick something. Namely, why the hell they would let a  _ passenger _ on the bridge. First, he decided to stand near the windows overlooking the top deck, where he could,  _ very clearly _ , see Antonio leaning against the railing, looking out over either the main deck, or the ocean itself. He decided to simply look at the passenger’s back, before once again clearing his throat, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side. “That wouldn’t happen to be our passenger out there, would it?”

He looked out of the corner of his eye, the helmsman and the woman both immediately looking to the tea drinker, as if it were clearly  _ their _ job to answer the captain. It was always interesting to see how quickly people would turn on one another. The tea drinker faltered under the collective gazes, swallowing a bit as they answered, “Yup.” Was the only response they seemed able to muster.

“Why?” Peter asked. This time, the tea drinker looked pointedly at the helmsman, who shrugged a shoulder back at them.

_ “You’re the one that kept letting him go out there, Greg _ .” The tea drinker didn’t quite manage a whisper; and Peter wasn’t sure if that had been on purpose or not.

In response, the helmsman bit back a sigh. “He likes the view.” He answered plainly. Then proceeded to elaborate, thankfully. “Doesn’t get in the way when he’s up there, and he don’t bother us.”

“I see, thank you,” Peter nodded, shifting his gaze back out the window. Antonio could just as easily have gotten out there via the side steps anyways; and it seemed like an obvious assumption that perhaps that was how he first made his way there.

Nodding, now to himself, Peter moved over towards the side door, and exited onto the deck, the door not fully closing yet before he heard the relieved exhale from the tea drinker. “Do y’think I’m gonna be in trouble?”

“We can only hope,” the hazelnut coffee woman replied dismissively. Which actually somewhat humoured Peter to hear. The tea drinker did seem rather jumpy, perhaps…

But he didn’t bother continuing that train of thought, and instead let the door close as he stepped out into the early morning air. Peter was surprised that Antonio hadn’t seemed to notice him, though he made no effort to go unnoticed. Although, Peter had spent quite some time cultivating his specific lack of presence.

Peter hadn’t meant to stand idle for long, but when he began formulating what sort of greeting to give the other man, Antonio let out a gentle laugh, “oh, hello there.” Peter froze; his gaze shifting down to where Antonio’s attention seemed placed. His eyes narrowed as he watched the ship’s cat, Erasmus, threading itself between Antonio’s legs, rubbing the side of its face against the man’s calf, before it stilled, sight trained on Peter.

He lifted his head slightly, keeping his gaze locked on the furry creature, who seemed just as invested in this sudden battle of don’t-blink as Peter was. If Erasmus had been a person, Peter might’ve taken it as a sort of challenge. But, he let his attention shift back to Antonio, who had yet to notice him. “Mr. Blake, good morning.”

“Oh sorry, I’m not in the way am I-- Oh, Captain Lukas, lovely surprise, seeing you.” Antonio shifted around carefully, clearly trying to avoid stepping on the cat that seemed glued to his leg.

“As it is to see you. I would not have taken you for such an early riser.” That seemed like a normal ice breaker.

Apparently so, when Antonio offered a small laugh. “Ah well, I’ve actually been up for a while now. Accidentally turned in a bit early when we first um, shipped out, was it? Anyways, my sleep schedule’s been a bit wonky since.” He admitted easily.

Peter nodded slowly as he moved further out until he stood beside Antonio against the railing, favouring the man’s left; as Erasmus seemed keen to keep Antonio’s right for themself. “I suppose a sleep schedule isn’t as important when you don’t have much to do.”

Antonio frowned, holding his mug up to his lips, but not yet taking a drink. “I mean, I guess. I would like to help out around the ship, but I’m not sure I have an, uh,  _ qualifications _ that would actually be of help.”

“Ah, yes, my apologies- I didn’t mean for that to come off as an attack on your character or anything, Mr. Blake. You are a passenger aboard this ship, after all; there's no expectations to be met.”

“All true, but my sentiment is still about the same, though.” He replied, finally taking a cautious sip from his mug. Judging by the pinched face he made soon after, it was still too hot for his liking.

Peter was then acutely aware that he hadn’t come up with any sort of… idea as to what he actually wanted to say to the man beyond the initial greeting. Which quickly turned the conversation into a long stretch of silence; though this didn’t seem to bother Antonio, who eventually turned back to lean his arms against the railing. The cat seemed to take this as a sign they were being ignored, and quickly leapt up onto the thin railing, butting their head against Antonio’s shoulder. “Lively thing, ain’t you?” Antonio laughed softly, shifting the mug into his left hand to stroke the cat with his right while still staring out over the ocean that stretched out before them. It was a few more moments before Peter felt it was appropriate to change from the previous topic.

“So how have you been adjusting to the ship, then?”

“Um, rather well, I think, actually. I dunno, I was a bit worried I might get sea-sick, but… no, no I actually find the swaying of the ship a bit relaxing more than anything. Never been on a ship like this before. Been out on a boat a few times when I was a kid, but nothing like this.”

That seemed… odd. “I would’ve assumed a marine biologist would spend a fair bit of time on the ocean.” 

Antonio stilled for all of a few seconds before giving a small, almost forced, shrug. “N-no, not really. I mean, why go out to sea when you can bring the sea to you? At least that’s what the university is always saying. ‘Course you can’t bring an oceanic pole into a university.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “What university did you say you were with?”

“I didn’t,” Antonio replied, returning his attention back to the cat, who had at some point begun purring quite loudly.

Peter frowned, but made an assumption, and let the subject drop. More silence followed, and then when Peter began asking another question, it seemed Antonio was also about to speak, and they both effectively cancelled one another out. “No, go ahead.” Peter offered him the floor.

“Ah, right-- I was just going to ask how long exactly have you been sailing?”

“Curious to know my own qualifications?”

“Oh, no- no, I was… just curious in general.”

“I see. Well, I have been the Captain of the Tundra… about three decades now, actually. I believe it should be the 30th anniversary of her christening around the end of this year.”

“Oh,” he sounded surprised by this. “You, um, must’ve started out to sea quite young then, I suppose.”

Peter found himself frowning again, looking over at Antonio just in time to catch him looking away, now leaning more heavily against the railing, and taking an impromptu gulp from his mug- which seemed like an unwise choice when a moment later he wheezed, coughing and putting a hand against his throat. Erasmus flinched, but remained perched on the railing, seeming unbothered that Antonio had stopped petting them. “Too warm?” Peter asked.

“Just a touch.” He rasped, swallowing carefully and letting out a long exhale.

Peter decided it was best not to comment further, so he asked his own question next. “How long have you been a marine biologist?”

"Ah, not long, actually." Antonio let out a short laugh at this. "I used to be an accountant, once upon a time."

"Oh? Wasn't to your liking, was it?"

"I– no, not really. It was easy to get a qualification for though; plus it paid the bills, y'know."

Peter nodded, he had definitely heard the expression used before. “But marine biology, that interests you, does it?”

“Sure.”

“Hm. And what would your expertise be? I assume marine biology is quite the major field, so there must be some part of it you're more involved with than others.”

“Um, well… ah…” he let out a long exhale, before biting his lip, brow creasing slightly.. And for a moment Peter could have sworn he might’ve been stalling. “You’ll probably think it sounds silly.” 

Peter arched a brow at that. “Humour me.”

Antonio puffed out another breath, but continued. “Algae. I like studying algae. I mean, there’s so much of the stuff, everywhere, but how much do we really know about it?”

“Hm,” Peter sounded thoughtful, then added, “you’re right that does sound rather silly.”

Antonio scowled at him, only seeming to look offended for the sake of humour, and Peter couldn’t help the amused smile that spread across his own lips. “Oh! Okay, alright. And what is it exactly that holds your interest then? Better be something real good.”

“I…” Peter paused. “I like bottled ships.”

Antonio gave him a quizzical look. “Bottled ships? Like putting tiny ships into bottles? That sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

Antonio let out a burst of laughter, which startled the cat enough for them to plop down off the railing. “Well now, that kind of sounds fun. I mean, I’ve always wondered which comes first, the ship or the bottle?”

“The bottle.” Peter answered, still wondering why Antonio hadn’t resorted to viciously mocking him on learning this fact about Peter’s character. A certain acquaintance of his hadn’t hesitated.

“Okay, but how’s that work, then? How’d’you get the ship into the bottle?” He actually sounded genuinely interested in the answer.

“Through the opening in the bottle, you put the cap over that part last.”

"But then how's the water get in? To make the little boat float?"

Peter's brow creased. "Well, they don't always have water, sometimes it's just a resin base; but aside from that you use a cork for the cap, and then you can filter the water in through a needle."

"Okay but looping back to the boats; ain't they usually a bit bigger than the bottle's opening? I don't…" Antonio looked politely confused, but still interested in whatever explanation Peter could offer.

"You– you don't put the whole ship in at once. Usually just the base first, depending on the size of the bottleneck. But generally speaking, it's piece by piece, using the tools on hand to connect and add the additional parts."

Antonio was quiet for a moment, but nodding slightly. "You know what, that actually makes a lot of sense. Don't know why I always thought they just crammed the whole thing in at once; or … I dunno, put the bottle around the ship? But then there's never any of those connecting lines around the bottle that would indicate the bottle being the last bit. Plus then I guess you don't want water leaking out– but the resin base, that's interesting."

Peter tilted his head, somewhat amused by how deeply Antonio was thinking about all this. He, of course, never once considered that perhaps this was simply Antonio’s way of switching the topic of conversation off himself.  _ (Deep down, it can be agreed that Peter is a somewhat vain creature that actually quite liked having the chance to talk about himself and his own interests. Though he would never admit it _ .)

There came a tap from the windows behind them, and there stood one of the crew, gesturing for them to move out of the line of sight, as they held a pair of binoculars. “Guess we ought to move out of the way.” Antonio started heading towards the stairs that led down towards the main deck, but Peter shook his head.

“No need to leave entirely, we can stand over here.” Peter gestured to the portside of the overlook, which would get them out of the way, while also giving a much better view of the ocean below. This time, when silence pervaded, Peter didn’t feel the need to interrupt it. So the pair stood, leaning against the portside railing, staring out quietly as the ship cut through the gentle waves that did little in the way of jostling the ship. 

Antonio did shift once or twice; and it took Peter a moment to notice he might have been shivering. Which would make sense, he wasn’t exactly dressed for the cold air of the Atlantic. His clothes weren’t all that different from what he first wore when he boarded, but lacked the light jacket, in favour of a yellow cardigan. Which couldn’t have been doing much against the cold. Still,  _ chivalry _ didn’t exactly run in the Lukas bloodline, so he elected to ignore it, unless it became a problem.

So, instead he decided to eye the mug Antonio held, noticing that it definitely wasn’t one of the ship’s own. It was a dark navy blue, but wrapping around the side opposite the mug’s handle was some sort of silver design that he couldn’t quite see past Antonio’s hand. Staring at it long enough though, Antonio finally noticed, looking at him before looking at his mug and letting an amused exhale. “You like it? Picked it up in a kitschy shop before we left, uh, port?” He said the last word as if uncertain if it were the correct term. “It’s nice, though, innit?” 

Antonio held the mug by its handle in his left hand and supported the bottom of the mug with his right showing off the silver spider’s web design that branched around the mug. “It is… interesting.”

“Yeah. Didn’t actually, um… Well, when I went into the shop I was actually just looking for a bit of reading material for the trip; saw they had some National Geographics in the window, so I went in. This little thing was up at cash, and the lady just  _ gave _ it to me. I bring this up, because she said it was “just collecting dust”, which I thought was a bit of a missed opportunity. Definitely should’ve said it was just collecting cobwebs.” He laughed softly as he spoke.

“I see.” This did not stand out as odd to Peter at all. It was just a mug, after all. And the silver design did look nice across the dark navy blue. Pretty, even.

Antonio gave a small smile, his attention returning to the water below, where yet again Peter noticed the smallest shiver running up the man’s spine. Perhaps it would become somewhat of a problem. “Are you cold?” He asked plainly, and it took a moment for Antonio to react.

“Hm? No, not at all. Are… are you? You don’t have to stay out here if you are, though I do appreciate the company.”

“I’m fine. You keep shivering though.”

“What? Oh, um… sorry? I don’t mean to.” He genuinely sounded like it wasn’t something he was aware of. Maybe it was a body-temperature thing, and even if Antonio didn’t notice that he was cold, the rest of him did.

“No, it’s alright. But, if you are cold, there's really no need to stand outside like this.” Peter wasn’t sure why he cared. If the man wanted to freeze to death, so be it. What was another doomed soul at sea?

But then Antonio shivered again, and Peter was beside himself. ( _ Although, perhaps if he’d bothered to pay any real attention to the movements of his companion, he might have noticed that Antonio hadn’t been shivering at all; but had in fact been recoiling ever so slightly from what he saw below, before slumping against the railing again, trying his best to simply ignore the growing darkness that only his eyes could see.)  _ But Peter Lukas was hardly what one would call, “observant”. And with a life at sea, or wandering the cold moors of his childhood home, it wasn’t like the chill ocean air bothered him.

So, with some reluctance, he slipped off his woolen overcoat, and placed it over Antonio’s shoulders a moment later. The man jumped slightly, eyeing the weight around his shoulders with a confused expression. “You really don’t have-”

“It’s fine,” Peter cut him off, taking a deep breath of the salty, early morning air, and leaning his forearms against the railing; more specifically so he wouldn’t have to see the flustered look on Antonio’s face.

There was a brief moment of silence, before Antonio shrugged deeper into the warmth of the coat on his shoulders, letting out a tired sigh. “Right, so, moving on then… What kind of ship is the Tundra, anyways? I assume “cargo ship” is the general term, but there’s specifics to it, isn’t there?”

Peter perked at the question. Yet again Antonio was asking the perfect sort of question that Peter was delighted to answer. If he’d thought about this, he might have seen it as a bad sign, but having someone actually invested in hearing him talk was going straight to his head on this one. “The Tundra, in general terms, is what’s known as a  _ tweendecker _ .”

“Oh?” Antonio said, “only a tween? I assumed going on thirty years would’ve made her an  _ adult _ -decker.”

Peter frowned, “pardon?”

Antonio met his gaze with an amused expression on his face, which quickly dissipated when it was clear his joke hadn’t quite landed. “Um, nothing. No, uh, continue? What sort of, uh,  _ specifications _ makes a ship a tweendecker?”

“Well, tweendeckers generally have 2 decks, excluding the main deck. The decks below the main deck are referred to as  _ tweendecks _ , and as you can see just over the rail to the front there, the tweendecks are retractable, allowing for the cargo to be dropped in via the ship's crane. But if you’re looking for a more specific ship term, the Tundra is classified as a  _ panamax _ ; and while She's in the smaller percentile--” Peter continued talking, appreciating the occasional nod and hum of interest from Antonio. It was somewhat hypnotic, being able to talk without interruption, and to a captive audience, no less. He eventually found himself rattling off the exact dimensions of his ship, including the general size and weight of the containers below, and how weight impacted the ship’s speeds, etcetera. 

Throughout his drawn out monologue, Peter noticed Antonio shiver once more; but this time, Antonio turned his back to the railing, leaning against it and shrugging himself deeper into the coat around his shoulders. “It’s alright, you can keep going,” Antonio reassured him when he’d paused.

“Right, of course. Well… really I think that might be all, actually. I’ve said about all there is to say on the matter.” He admitted.

“Oh,” Antonio yawned shortly after, before shaking his head, blinking slowly. “Well, you must really love your ship, to keep all that in your head, and be able to drop it all out at the drop of a dime. It’s interesting, though.”

“I assume you could likely do about the same in regards to your algae.”

Antonio stared into the depths of his mug. “That’s a reasonable assumption, yeah.”

“If you’d like, you could tell me about your work--”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to bore you, no that’s fine.”

Peter smiled pleasantly, reassuringly even. “Nonsense, I insist.” He insisted.

Antonio offered a stiff smile, but adamantly shook his head. “Really, it’s fine- I, um… I’m not great with the whole… speaking thing? You might’ve noticed. I do have some books with me though, if you’re actually interested I could let you borrow one?”

And now the onus was on Peter to either agree to that, or admit that he genuinely didn’t have an interest. But that was  _ rude _ , and he had to at least try to be a good host. For now, at least. By the evening, however… Well, they would be a full week out from the shore, and still another week from the next port.

“Perhaps another time. Or, whenever you’re feeling chatty, you could humour me with your own account.” He offered.

Antonio shrugged a shoulder; which was almost a missed action, given how hidden his leaner frame was underneath Peter’s heavy coat. “The books would really be able to explain things better, I think, but alright. We’ll just put a pin in that for now, I guess.”

But with Antonio’s insistence on not taking up the proverbial torch; the pair were now left without a topic of discussion, and thus silence pervaded once again. Not that Peter minded. A nice quiet morning was easily enjoyable, especially with such a view. He was, of course, talking about the ocean below the top deck; and not his current companion. Best not get  _ confused _ , or make  _ assumptions _ . Which-- no, nevermind. Peter let the budding thought fall from his mind, imagining it as a single raindrop, falling from the ship and splashing, unseen, into the vast ocean waters.

He was slowly becoming aware of his growing state of  _ boredom _ . Standing in silence was his whole thing, and yet after speaking for nearly a half-hour uninterrupted, he found the silence almost…  _ tedious _ . Like there ought to be some other topic brought up. He eyed the man beside him, somewhat expecting him to already be set on another topic, but just stood there, back against the railing; head slightly tucked against his chest and the grasp on his mug weak at best.

Hang on… was… “Antonio?” Peter asked, in as gentle a tone he could muster.

The man, in response, roused slightly, but did not respond, seeming to relax back more, and Peter could see the mug slipping ever so slightly from his grasp. Without thinking, he reached a hand over, placing it beneath the mug- and almost immediately, Antonio released it into his hand. Peter stood back from the railing, moving around to stand in front of Antonio, shocked to find him dozing off on his feet. That- that was  _ ridiculous _ . There was no way a person could just fall asleep like that--

“Antonio?” He tried again, this time with more force. But there was still a lack of response except for the brief fluttering of eyelashes as Antonio tucked his arms in against his chest, like a little roosting bird; or something. Peter was at a loss. Should he simply leave him there? Stay standing next to him so no one would think something amiss? Well, perhaps leaving him there wasn’t the best course of action- there was a likely chance that he might fall from his feet entirely, and by the looks of it, it was likely his course would take him tumbling over the railing. 

Peter cast his gaze around for a moment, but even through the windows of the bridge, he couldn’t see the sparse crew members within-- he did, however, catch sight of the cat trotting back over, beelining past him to rub their little face against Antonio’s leg again. But if that had been Erasmus’ way of trying to wake Antonio, it was a sad attempt.

Biting back a sigh, he reached his free hand towards Antonio’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze, and then a shake, trying to wake him enough to suggest they get him inside. But with only the one hand available there really wasn’t much he could do. So instead he moved over slightly, and wrapped his arm around Antonio’s shoulder’s, attempting to move him into a proper standing position, and hopefully have a strong enough grasp to keep him from falling if that didn’t succeed in waking him. Neither happened, which was both unfortunate and fortunate. Instead of moving forward, onto his feet, Antonio fell against Peter almost immediately, his full weight leaning onto Peter, giving him a bit of a startle. For someone who insisted they hadn’t been cold, Antonio was like a heavy block of ice against his chest. Even through the thickness of his cable-knit jumper he could feel the coolness of Antonio’s forehead near his collarbone.

All that aside, it was still a hell of a predicament to be trapped in. One hand was stuck holding that stupid mug, and the other was now around Antonio’s waist in an attempt to keep him from putting his full weight against Peter and sending them both tumbling. Which isn’t to say that Peter was easily knocked over- but deadweight was a lot harder to stand up against. Though that probably wasn’t the best word to use…

Alas; this was a problem. He briefly considered just, shouting the man’s name, just real loud, but looking down at the mess of dark curls and the soft expression, Peter frankly wasn’t sure he could muster the volume for that. Plus it seemed such a shame to wake someone who clearly looked like they needed the sleep. But to sleep while standing? That couldn’t be comfortable, at all. His concentration was broken by a pitiful meowing sound, as the cat made an appearance yet again. “What could you possibly want?” 

_ “Mrow,” _ the cat sat perched on the railing, blinking slowly at him.

“Ever so helpful, thank you.” But wait, clearly if the railing was thick enough for Erasmus to sit upon it, it should be more than possible to balance Antonio’s mug on it as well. It was worth a shot; and at the very least, with both hands available, Peter would have a better chance of moving Antonio if the man were truly out cold. As Peter reached towards the railing to set the mug down, Antonio seemed to sigh in his not-quite-sleep, rubbing his cheek against Peter’s chest and he couldn’t be certain but it did sound like he mumbled something, but Peter couldn’t catch it as he struggled to place the mug carefully against the railing; and then tried to ignore Erasmus as they seemed to take a keen interest in the mug.

Instead, Peter focused on shifting Antonio’s weight, placing his now free hand on the man’s back, between his shoulder blades, moving his other arm from around Antonio’s waist, to instead hold him at the hip. “Antonio?” Peter spoke in a calm, yet stern, tone pushing the man into an upright position. Given he now had the use of both hands, he could stop Antonio from simply resting more of his weight against Peter.

“Hm?” Antonio swayed, both hands coming forward to brace himself as he seemed to fall forward, but caught his own weight, hands finding purchase on Peter’s shoulders. He looked around with a slightly frantic look, as if surprised he hadn’t fallen on his face. “Oh… hello.”

“Yes, hello.” Peter augmented his tone to be just a bit louder than usual. “Awake again, yes?”

“Ah… um…” Antonio blinked slowly, pulling back from Peter until his back was against the railing. “I- I ‘fink so, yeah.” There was a clear amount of tension now in his shoulders as his face pinched.

Peter sighed, taking a step back, and then attempted to put his hands into his pockets, only to be firmly reminded that he didn’t have his coat on, as it was still securely draped over Antonio’s shoulders. So instead, he picked Antonio’s mug up from the railing, shooing Erasmus who seemed about to either try drinking from it, or swat it over the railing. Looking back at Antonio, the man still leaned against the railing with a somewhat dazed expression. “Antonio? Are you present?”

The man tilted his head, looking up at Peter for a moment, before nodding slowly, taking a deep breath of the cold morning air. “I- yeah, Yes, I think so, um…” Antonio sighed deeply, bringing his hands to his face and rubbing at his eyes. Immediately, however, he froze-- pulling his hands away from his face he stared at them in a panic, before casting his eyes around the deck. “Oh, my mug-”

This man was quite the wreck. “That would be right here,” Peter held the mug up so it would be directly in Antonio’s line of sight.

Antonio slumped back against the railing- whatever spike of energy his panic had given him seemed to disappear at the sight of the mug. “Well, that’s a relief. Don’t think I’m in the right state to clean up a broken mug right now.” He rubbed at his face again, before letting his arms drop to his side. “What- weren’t we in the middle of a conversation, or something?”

“More or less, yes. But, I think it best if we get you inside now, can’t have you falling asleep on your feet-- again.”

Antonio’s face fell, but he didn’t argue, only nodding. “Yeah, yes.” He agreed, slowly pushing away from the railing, swaying slightly before he found his feet proper.

Erasmus jumped down from the railing again, following after them as they headed back inside through the bridge’s side door- however, Peter made sure to let Antonio go first, and then expertly stuck his foot in the door, blocking the cat’s entry before slipping inside, letting the door close with Erasmus on the other side. There was no particular reason for this.

Antonio had a miserable expression the entire walk back to his cabin; which Peter at least got some amusement from. Whoever said it was the little things that count had been quite right indeed. Stopping short outside Antonio’s door, Peter offered a smile that hopefully didn’t come across as  _ too _ patronizing. “Well, best you get some proper sleep now.”

Antonio did not return Peter’s smile. “Right, yeah. ‘Fanks.” He mumbled the last bit, opening the door to his room, then turning back added. “Sorry again, for, um, falling asleep on you.”

“Quite literally even,” Peter replied.

His face twisted into a flustered grimace, “right, yeah.” Antonio repeated himself, but added, “Sorry about that too, I guess. Least I didn’t topple over the railing?”

“I couldn’t possibly have allowed such a thing to happen. Though the Tundra may rarely take passengers, when She does, they always make it their destination.” Making it back though, that was another matter entirely.

“Fantastic,” Antonio stated flatly. Then after barely containing a yawn, he sighed, “well, good- morning, I guess?” Then without further fanfare, he closed the door on Peter.

And while that could be considered rude, Peter actually found himself humoured by it. Turning down the hall, he began his short jaunt to his own quarters, and found himself idly taking a sip from the mug he carried. Which he quickly regretted, spitting the contents back into the mug. This was  _ not _ his drink, because it was  _ Antonio’s  _ he was carrying around with him; and the man seemed to take his coffee with a ridiculous amount of sugar. “Dear Lord,” Peter’s nose crinkled as he stared with concern into the depths of the mug. “How could anyone drink this.”

He was, however, standing outside his own cabin when two (2) things finally crossed his mind.

  1. He was still in possession of Antonio’s mug and,
  2. Antonio still had Peter’s coat.



Peter did not even bother putting effort into sighing about this. He simply didn’t have the energy to do anything about these revelations, so he entered his cabin, mug in hand. He had to prepare for the night to come anyhow; and that was far more important.


	3. 00. Repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There doesn't seem to be anything here. Unless fog counts as something? No? How strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

He woke gradually, in such a way that he wasn’t even certain he  _ was _ awake. There was a stark chill in the air that made him shiver from head to toe, and when he finally opened his eyes, it was quiet, but not dark. Through the window of his cabin, filtered in a greyish light that reminded him of spring mornings after a heavy rain. He stared at the window for sometime, not entirely sure of where he was.

The ship, wasn’t it? The… his mind blanked. The name of the ship seemed to be teetering on the tip of his tongue, but refusing to make itself known. 

Finally, he pulled his gaze from the window, looking around the room he was in, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position on the bed. His bed, right? He shook his head, trying to force some coherency into his mind as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. Whatever had been giving him some sliver of warmth fell from his shoulders and he nearly gasped when he felt just how cold the room was. He reached back, pulling the coat back up over his shoulders and huddling under it. That was… odd. This wasn’t his, was it? No, he wouldn’t have a coat like this, surely. And the shoulders of the coat were far too broad besides.

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, counting to ten, trying to ground himself, but his mind continued to be sluggish at best, his thoughts muddled and incoherent. Something was definitely  _ wrong _ , but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Was he dreaming?

No, he dismissed that thought as quickly as he’d thought of it. Why? What did he normally dream about that would make this so obviously not that? He didn’t know. His thoughts were frazzled, like mist across a damp field, the closer he seemed to get to them, the further away they got.

He got out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor of the cabin; but he didn’t let it bother him. The door leading out of the room was already open, and that seemed very dreamlike of it. Walking out into the corridor, he was unnerved to find it just as dull and grey as the room he’d left. There seemed to be something in the air causing the strange hue of the place-- maybe it was the cause for all of this. Some sort of gas leak, maybe? But then where was everyone? Everyone… Was there even anyone else here?

Oliver began shaking his head again. There was no point in lingering on strange thoughts that wouldn’t help him figure out what was going on. It hadn’t always been like this, surely, therefore there had to be a way of putting it right. Or at least some context that could help him adjust to whatever was happening. As he reached the stairs and began descending them, he tried to ignore how he only seemed able to see the first five steps in front of him at any given time- as if a heavy fog was obscuring the rest of them. That was silly-- and besides, how could this much fog even get inside the ship. No, he had to keep his thoughts  _ rational _ .

That thought made him laugh, and he wasn’t sure why. It had a sort of… taste of irony to it for some reason. As if putting himself and the word rational into the same sentence were some sort of hilarious joke. But he eventually let the thought go, and it washed away as easily as the tide. Instead, he focused on what he was doing and where he was going.

At that time, he really didn’t know where he was headed, but it was clear that he had a sort of muscle memory to his movements. He knew this place, at least enough to know that he was headed in a direction that might yield answers. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Oliver left the stairs, and began heading to the left of them, until he reached a door-- which was also open. The odd thing was, aside from the door he’d left through to get into the hallways, he wasn’t sure if he’d actually seen any others until the one he now stood in front of.

Then again, if he could recall that, maybe his memory wasn’t nearly as shot to hell as he’d assumed. Maybe he just hadn’t fully woken up yet, and that’s why everything felt so… tilted. But that conclusion soon faded as he stepped out on the deck of the ship. He quite literally, couldn’t see anything; a thick, basically opaque fog hung in the air, and seemed to seep into the ship through every open door or crevice it could find. But where was all the fog coming from? Oliver was properly disorientated as he leaned against the railing of the ship, keeping one hand against the metal as he inched his way along toward the front of the ship. A person could definitely get lost in a fog like this.

Yet with each uncertain step forward, the fog seemed to recede-- ever just out of reach. Oliver wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much; therefore it was probably best not to think about it, right? What he couldn’t ignore though was how utterly silent everything seemed to be. His own steps barely made a sound against the deck, and he wasn’t exactly walking lightly. At least not on purpose.

As he got closer to where the bow of the ship should’ve been, the fog seemed to open more, until Oliver could see with some clarity that he wasn’t alone after all. A man stood there, leaning against the railing at the front of the ship; and despite the chill in the air, he seemed entirely at ease to be standing in the middle of it in nothing more than his shirtsleeves, which were rolled neatly up to the elbow. Oliver’s face pinched as he took a few uncertain steps forward. Something about the man seemed familiar to him, but only in vague abstracts in regards to what ‘familiar’ meant. But there was something that Oliver was certain about when he spoke.

"Captain." 

The man turned his face towards him, flashing a pleasant smile; but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hello, Antonio; pleased to see you."

Oliver frowned.  _ Oliver  _ frowned; and he didn't know quite how to react at first, so he decided it was best not too. "And you, of course." He couldn't stop himself from sounding hesitant as he took to standing on the man's left. And though he did glance down below, over the railing, all he saw was more of that ever-present fog. If there was water below, he wouldn't be able to see it. "Where are we?" He asked, after what could've been anywhere between a single moment or a handful of minutes later.

"Just a brief stop in the Atlantic, nothing to worry about."

Oliver nodded slowly. "Because of the fog, right? Hard to steer a ship with it so thick, I should think."

The Captain offered another smile; one that implied that with context, Oliver might've found his own comment something to be amused about. "Something like that, yes."

"Okay..." So, obviously things weren't as out-of-place as they first seemed. But the ship being stopped didn't explain why he felt so disorientated- or why... why he couldn't actually remember what the Captain's name was. "How... how far until the next port, is it?"

"Still a few days now." The Captain responded without any sign that he might endeavour to say more on the matter.

"Right, yeah." Oliver couldn't help but put his attention back on the man beside him. With the fog as thick as it was, it wasn't like there was really anything else to occupy his focus with. Plus, maybe if he stared long enough, he might jog his memory a bit.

This was not the case; and after only what felt like a few minutes, the Captain frowned at him. "Are you feeling alright, Antonio? You look a bit... out of sorts."

Oliver forced a smile, but it felt misplaced, so he let it falter. "Just feeling a bit foggy, I guess."

The Captain laughed, but it sounded... off, somehow. Or maybe Oliver had just never heard the man laugh before. How well did he know the Captain? "You are rather funny when you want to be."

Oliver shrugged. "Guess so." Rather seemed like low hanging fruit, actually. But maybe the Captain liked puns? Or maybe just jokes about the weather. Silence seemed to fall over them, but the Captain still kept his gaze locked on Oliver, even if Oliver continued to narrowly avoid making direct eye contact.

"What brings you out here, Antonio? I imagine it's much warmer inside than it is out here."

His brow creased as he shook his head. "No- no it's about the same, really. I think there might be a gas leak or something, everything's all...  _ wonky _ . I- you don't notice it?"

The Captain tilted his head, but there was still a slight curve to his lips, as if Oliver had missed something-- something obvious maybe. "Have you... considered this might be a dream?"

Oliver scoffed, not really meaning too. "No, it's not. Not my dream, at least." No, he knew when he was in a dream- and they were nothing like this. Maybe this was the Captain's dream? Which was a funny thought, but Oliver was fairly certain that walking into another person's dreams wasn't something he could do.

"How can you be sure? Dreams can be--"

"It's not orange," Oliver cut him off; for some reason feeling agitated by the Captain's question. "And- and there's no... there's no--" Oliver stopped mid sentence, the rest coming back to him in the privacy of his own mind. There were no tendrils. There were none at all-- even with all the fog, Oliver was certain he would've caught sight of something. If he could see them twisting in the depths of the sea despite gallons of water being between them, it was a fair assumption he'd still be able to see them through the fog. But... they simply  _ weren't  _ here. "Where are we?" He asked again, but he couldn't stop a trace of almost...  _ panic _ , from seeping into his tone.

"Antonio?"

" _ Captain _ . Where is the ship, right now?" Now, he met the Captain's eye. He'd never much cared for eye contact, but now he held the other man's gaze, unblinking.

The Captain shifted, breaking eye contact first. "That is... a complicated question to answer."

"We are still in the Atlantic, though, yeah?" He pressed.

"Technically."

"No." Oliver said firmly, "Either we  _ are _ , or we  _ aren't _ . And if we ain't, then where are we?"

"It's... difficult to explain." The Captain certainly seemed in a bit of distress; but Oliver couldn't say that he cared much.

Oliver chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to put into words why he wanted to know the answer, without actually saying why. "Is it... Is it an easily accessible place?" Wow, that made it sound like he was playing a game of 20 Questions.

The Captain frowned, then snapped his head around to give Oliver a perplexed look. "What?"

"I--" His face twisted as he tried to reword, before entirely abandoning the approach. "Is this place... like Point Nemo?"

The Captain drew in a breath, before exhaling that same breath, clearly at a loss for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose it is... But while Point Nemo is the... well the loneliest place on  _ Earth _ ; this place is... just The Lonely."

Oliver squinted at him. " _ The _ Lonely?" The Captain nodded again, and Oliver almost just let it go. But he didn't. "Wait, what?"

The Captain tilted his head slowly, clearly contemplating how he might continue with an explanation; when his eyes averted to somewhere over Oliver's shoulder. "Perhaps, a demonstration would help?"

"What?" Oliver turned, looking in the same direction the Captain had, and through the fog he could just barely make out the silhouette of another person. "Who is--"

But the Captain had now sidled up alongside him; the only indication of this movement given was when the Captain's chest brushed up against Oliver's back and right shoulder. "Sh, sh. Wouldn't want them to hear us; be a shame to distract them now."

Oliver looked over his shoulder, only for a moment, glancing up at the man's face, at the almost hungry intensity in his gaze that was now solely focused on the figure stumbling through the fog, before he drew his own attention forward once more. The figure did seem as uneasy in the fog as Oliver had been, but there was a shakiness to their movement that Oliver hadn’t had. They shambled along the side of the ship, and they certainly didn’t look like they knew where they were going, so much as like they were being  _ drawn _ in the direction they moved.

They finally reached the front of the ship, no more than a couple meters from where Oliver and the Captain stood; yet it felt like they were miles apart, even with the fog looking nothing more than like a thick veil.

The figure seemed dazed as they stood at the front of the ship, looking down over the railing, before turning, staring out across the fog with a fleeting look of panic mixed with fright that sent a cold chill through Oliver, but he did not shiver from it. Oliver remained entirely still as he watched through the thick veil of fog as the figure made a few futile attempts at shouting into the mist; the words never quite reaching where Oliver stood with the Captain. Even as the figure cupped their hands around their mouth, clearly straining as they called out, but it all seemed to come out as distant static to Oliver’s ears. He briefly wondered if maybe this person could see him, and the Captain as well; maybe they also appeared through the fog as vague shapes, motionless and distant. 

But no, he didn't actually think this was true. The way the figure seemed to cast their gaze about, a clear despair in their movements-- as far as this person knew, they were completely alone. And it was only a matter of time before their futile attempts to get the attention of someone, anyone, came to a halt. There was a clear level of fear present in their body language as the fog seemed to part ever so slightly, creating something of a trail through the thick mist that pointed in a clear direction towards the side of the bow. It was there that Oliver could only, just barely, make out what looked to be the top of a ladder, wielded to the side of the ship, and no doubt there for such an occasion as when the ship was beached, and there was no alternative way off the ship.

The figure was hesitant as they inspected the ladder top, but the fog seemed to only grow thicker around them the longer they stalled. Eventually, Oliver watched as the figure looked to the sky, as if something far above might help them; and quite frankly, Oliver was beginning to feel like this was all just a bit too dramatic. Why didn't the figure just leave the ship already? What could they possibly be waiting for? What was it about this place that made them so afraid? Oliver couldn't quite understand it. But as the figure began their descent down the ladder, Oliver moved on impulse, wanting to see where they would go; to know what was down below. 

The fog parted as he moved forward, but there still remained that thick wall of mist between himself and this person as the finally made it to the bottom of the ladder, and there below, Oliver watched as they moved away from the ship, walking across greyish coloured sand, and eventually disappearing into the fogbank that clung not far from the coast. Standing there, Oliver could look out through the fog now, and saw that the ship seemed to be grounded against a beach, and spanning out at a near impossible distance was a long stretch of sand and grey waves, that ever so faintly, he could hear crashing against the shore.

“I’m not sure I understand what I just saw. Where… where did they go?” Oliver turned back towards the Captain, only briefly expecting him to no longer be there.

“Another place, where they’ll never see nor hear another soul again.” The Captain replied, seeming to have followed Oliver when he’d walked towards the ladder.

Oliver frowned. “Sounds lo- oh, I see.  _ Lonely _ , hah.” His laugh was hollow, and he was still uncertain of how he felt about the whole scenario. “Will they come back?”

“No. This isn’t the sort of place one leaves.” The Captain said, looking down at Oliver with a concentrated expression. “Perhaps you ought to go back inside now.”

“Why? Scared I’ll disappear?”

The Captain considered this remark, quite seriously it seemed. "Would you like to? Just disappear, I mean." 

Oliver considered the question, eyes traveling out over the grey sand and grey waves, and grey... everything. It would be a bleak place to spend eternity. But... everything about this place felt... peaceful, maybe? Oliver wasn't sure that was the right word for it, but it felt close. Calm, maybe? Distant?

And if there were no people here... Or at least, none that he could ever see or meet, then... He'd never have to see those tendrils ever again. He would be free. But… Why did it feel too easy? There must be some sort of…  _ catch _ to it. “It can’t be this easy, can it? To just… climb down that ladder there and then… just be  _ gone _ , never seen again?”

The Captain shrugged, “I suppose it depends on the person, really. Clearly  _ they _ had some reservations about having everything and everyone they knew stripped away to roam a sandy beach.” He tilted his head towards where the figure had disappeared down below. “Because if you’re wondering if there is a  _ price _ , then that would be it. There is no coming back from here, not on your own, but the Fog has a funny way of making it difficult to remember anything that may be of help to you.”

It all sounded very confusing, like some sort of vague riddle. "No, sorry, you've lost me; um, what you're saying is that I can leave? And if I do, I stay here, alone and never to see another person again; and that's it? My payment is to lose everything that I'd lose anyway because nothing lasts forever. I- sounds like a deal, honestly." Oliver decided at that moment. He couldn't be entirely certain, but it didn't feel like he had anything to lose anyways. Did he have loved ones? A favourite coffee shop he'd miss visiting? It all seemed so trivial for a chance to never have to spend every waking moment watching the deaths of others and being incapable of stopping any of it. And maybe he would change his mind, some time later, after traversing the same stretch of beach over and over and over again-- but that sounded like something he'd have to deal with later.

The Captain seemed entirely taken aback by Oliver's ferocity. "Are you certain? Perhaps I haven't fully explained--"

Oliver waved a hand, somehow feeling more like himself now; like there was something inside of him that had suddenly just... clicked. All that time agonizing over finding a place that would have him free from those dreams, from those tendrils; and now it was right here, right in front of him. "Captain, I've got nothing to lose, that I haven't lost already. There ain't nothing left to take; and if I'm wrong? Well, then colour me surprised; but at least I'll know that maybe my life hadn't been all bad. But I don't think that's likely; no... If I had something to keep me on this ship, I'd've remembered it by now, I think."

The Captain looked... conflicted. It looked like the face of someone whose plan had just fallen apart, and he wasn't certain if he should accept this change, or try to get back on track. "You... like it here?"

Oliver shrugged, feeling like a weight was being lifted from his shoulders. "I can think of worse places to be." Like a winding road during the rainy season, or hospitals in general. Or anywhere, really, that had anything  _ living _ . But Oliver still had to wonder about what had the Captain so troubled. He'd contemplated before who the Captain was, why he seemed to know him, but whenever he tried to focus on it, his thoughts seemed fleeting at best; never quite coming to any real conclusion. "Do you not want me to go, Captain?"

The Captain didn’t seem to consider the question for long, raising one shoulder in a small shrugging motion. “The choice is entirely yours, Antonio.” 

Oliver wasn’t sure he believed that. After all, it certainly hadn’t looked like the other person had had much of a  _ choice _ , so much as pained resignation in their fate. But maybe the Captain’s choice in words had been on purpose; maybe he didn’t want Oliver to think that he might be playing some role in all this; that the Captain had more control over what was happening here and now then Oliver would've given him credit for. But regardless of whether this was true or not; it was clear that he was leaving this decision up to Oliver. He stepped closer towards the Captain, again searching for some sign of familiarity. 

The Captain’s expression became more distant the closer Oliver got to him; and there was only a hint of puzzlement present in his cold blue eyes. Those same eyes broke contact for only a moment, and Oliver followed their gaze to the coat that still hung over his shoulders. A coat that was too big on Oliver but… 

“Do you want your coat back before I leave?” Oliver asked, but didn’t let his tone give away that it was only a guess.

The slight shift in the Captain’s expression gave Oliver all he needed to know his speculation had been correct. His brow furrowed, eyes flicking back to the coat, and the Captain lifted a hand, placing it against Oliver’s shoulder and feeling the fabric for a moment before shaking his head. “Keep it.”

“You sure?” Oliver had started to become emboldened by his recent string of correct assumptions. “Or is that your way of leaving me with something to remember you by?”

The Captain tensed, as if he hadn’t considered such an implication. “An interesting point; I think I will take my coat back now, actually." He reached out towards the coat, and Oliver stepped back, bubbling with laughter. Something about the Captain’s shift in attitude was just so amusing.

There seemed to be a shift in the air as well, the fog swirling about at the sound of his laughter. Oliver cleared his throat, looking about as the fog settled again. “What’s that about, you think?”

The Captain was frowning at their surroundings, but could only offer a shrug. “This place doesn’t hear much laughter. Not sure It knows what to think of it.”

“It didn’t do that earlier when you were having a laugh.” Oliver pointed at.

“I guess it likes me.” The Captain deadpanned.

Oliver couldn’t help letting out another chuckle, noticing again how the fog seemed to spasm. It was such a weird little thing, but Oliver felt himself enthralled by it, until his mind started to drift and he had to reel himself back in. Settling his gaze back on the Captain, he said. “I think I’m gonna go now.”

The Captain tilted his head to the side, a complex expression on his face. “If you insist.” He still made no move to stop Oliver from leaving.

“I do. I do insist. Thank you for the coat, and… yeah.” Oliver nodded, mostly to himself, already turning towards the ladder.

“Goodbye, Antonio.” 

When he looked back over his shoulder, the Captain was gone, and the fog seemed to grow thicker in his absence, flowing freely closer and closer towards Oliver, as if willing him in its own right towards the ladder. He could feel some small rush of excitement in the pit of his stomach as he moved in front of the way down to the sandy beach below. But just before he actually managed to reach out for the top of the ladder, he noticed something crisscrossed over the top rung; and right as he recognized it as a bit of spider web, the spider responsible came crawling up the side of the rail, bouncing along the thin strip of silk.

“Someone works fast; what’s it been-- couple of minutes since the other one went down here?” It was so weird, the way the spider seemed intent on balancing itself on the thin thread of spider silk, raising its front to legs as if that would scare Oliver off somehow. Or maybe it just didn’t want to have its web disturbed? “Well, tough. Should’ve set up somewhere else.”

Oliver reached a hand out and flicked the rather large sized spider right against its abdomen, sending it careening over the side of the ship and disappearing into the fog below. He paused, perhaps for a moment too long, after that. And before he could even take the last step towards the ladder, he felt something so starkly familiar to him-- in a way nothing else had since he’d left his bed. It was a weight wrapping around his ankle before it spread up towards his knee, cold and pulsating against his leg.

The peaceful calm that had come over him now shattered, and was replaced with a sinister dread. This place would not be his salvation after all.

Oliver exhaled slowly, and with some consideration, took another step forward, toward the ladder. The weight shifted, stretching up towards his thigh, but he continued, leaning forward and gripping the railing in an attempt to pull himself forward. He’d’ve thrown himself over if he thought it would work. Well, actually, maybe it would? There might be a chance that he’d lose a leg, but he had a feeling that that wouldn’t matter much in a place like this. He just had to get off the ship. 

So he threw himself forward, ignoring that little voice that shouted in fear of the fall; but it didn’t matter. Oliver’s legs went out from underneath him, but instead of vaulting forward, the weight against his leg pulled him back and he slammed against the deck, luckily with his arms in front of him that stopped him from falling on his face. But that didn’t stop the fall from disorientating him. Despite the dizziness however, Oliver immediately attempted to pull himself across the deck toward the ladder again, even as the pulsating mass that clung to his leg moved further up until he could feel it wrapping around his waist. 

_ Why won’t you let me go? _

Teeth gritted, he couldn’t speak the words as his nails dug into the deck, the weight moving further up his body until he could feel the coldness seeping through his clothes, up his back and against his chest. Yet he didn’t stop trying to fight against it, stretching out a hand towards the railing, trying to push himself up with as much strength as he could muster. That is until he felt a thin tendril touch against his neck, and all the fight he had inside him gave way and he faltered against the deck. Laying there, feeling the tendril pulsating around him, seemingly in time with the beat of his own heart, he went still.

He knew what was doing this to him; at least physically what it was. But whether it was the Fog, or simply the dreaded reality of it all, he did not know  _ why _ . 

There was one final pull, and he slid across the deck and into the fog; but his consciousness did not prevail any further past that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: memory loss and disorientation, as this chapter takes place within the Lonely.


	4. II. In Transit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tundra has passed the halfway mark on her voyage towards Panama. What could be odd about that?

Oliver had found himself in the deepest, most restful sleep. The kind he never thought he’d see the likes of ever again. It was  _ splendid _ . When he finally did wake, there was none of the usual sluggishness. It was cold as hell, though. Which he soon realized might have something to do with the fact that he hadn’t actually gotten  _ under _ his covers when he’d fallen asleep; instead laying haphazardly on top of them. And good Lord, he was sore for some reason. While he wasn’t sluggish when waking, there did feel like a sort of fogginess to his thoughts. 

But as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, he did feel more clear. And pained. His chest felt heavy, and his left leg felt like he might have been kicked by a horse or something. It wasn’t great, but he wasn’t quite awake enough yet for it to ring any alarm bells. Luckily, given the chill in the air, there was at least one blanket wrapped around him so he wasn’t left a chattering mess.

As Oliver tried to pull the blanket around him more, he was embarrassed to find he was actually snuggled beneath the Captain’s coat, and not a blanket. He honestly thought he’d left it at the end of the bed, but maybe he’d grabbed it in his sleep? Unable to get himself under the covers? Still; not great.

And while he was ready to discard it on the bed and get up, the moment the coat slipped from his shoulders a chill ran up his body, and nearly made his teeth chatter. It was  _ cold _ . And more so than what he was used to, given that it hadn’t exactly been a perfect summer’s heat aboard the Tundra since he boarded. But this morning- or was it afternoon? Late evening?--  _ Today _ , it seemed especially chilly. The kind that seeped right down into your bones.

Oliver wrapped the coat tighter around himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed where he managed to slip them right into his slippers. Originally, he’d felt silly about packing them, but honestly? They were godsend when he didn’t feel like pulling on his boots. And it was almost always silent as the grave aboard the Tundra that it wasn’t like he had to worry about running into anyone and have them mention his fashion choices. In fact, on the rare occasion he did bump into a crew member, they never gave him more than a passing glance.

Which was a bit odd; but Oliver hadn’t really been on a boat before-- or at least not a  _ ship _ ; so he wasn’t really sure what kind of culture to expect anyways. Still, at the very least he’d expect the crew to talk to each other- but they didn’t even seem to do that. Odd, but not his business, or so he’d decided after about a day of it. He was just a simple passenger, and once they made it to where he wanted to go; nothing else would matter. 

Oliver finally relinquished the jacket however, pulling one of his cardigans off the back of the chair in front of the small desk, and put that on instead. The fabric was thinner, and it was cold against him, but at least it was  _ his _ . Rolling his neck he turned back towards the door, and froze.

It was… open? Which, alright. He definitely remembered  _ closing it _ , but then again, this had happened before. It probably had something to do with the ship being on the water, rocking back and forth-- if the door didn’t get fully shut, obviously a bit of boat-swaying might make it open up. Peeking out in the hall, he was at least a little relieved that there didn’t seem to be anyone about. That would’ve been… just too much.

Ducking back into his cabin, he reached over to the small desk, then paused, realizing that his mug wasn’t sitting there like he’d expected it to be. That was weird, where was the last place he’d left it, again? Wait… or maybe he’d been using a different one lately?

It didn’t matter, Oliver just shrugged it off, and left his cabin, making sure to hear the click of the door closing before heading off down the corridor, looping his way around and down towards the- the galley- Was that what they called it?. He wasn’t as surprised when he found it empty there; usually whenever he managed to drag himself down there, there wasn’t anyone around except for the cook. But honestly, the last thing he needed was one of the crew giving him a weird look over the way he was dragging his one leg. Why did it  _ hurt _ so much?

Oliver gave his usual knock, and cheery greeting before he opened the kitchen door. To his surprise, the kitchen was entirely empty; not even a sign that the cook had simply stepped out for a bit. “Loreto?” Oliver called out to empty air. That was odd, wasn’t it? Though, even the cook needed a break, so it wasn’t  _ that _ odd. Besides, that meant he had free-range of the kitchen, right? Maybe Oliver still would’ve liked what little conversation he managed to pull from the cook; even if it wasn’t much more than the occasional eyeroll or grunted response. Then again, Oliver wasn’t sure he was really in the mood for conversation, actually. Plus, he knew Loreto had a secret stash of cocoa somewhere in the kitchen. 

It really only took a few minutes of searching for him to find it too-- under the island counter, hidden inside a crockpot of all places. The electric kettle was still in its usual place, and still seemed fairly full, so he flicked it on and eyed around for a cup; and was a little put out not to see his mug around. There had been a few occasions where he’d left it laying around, and usually one of the crew would find it and politely take it down to the kitchen. They may not be a talkative lot, but at the very least they must have good intentions. But this was not the case this time, so he looked inside one of the nearby cupboards, taking down a cream-coloured ceramic mug with a little emblem of a nautical anchor on its sides.

When his cocoa was made, he gave the kitchen one last look; mostly to make sure Loreto hadn’t appeared while he was distracted. But the place was still as empty as it had been when he first entered. Shrugging to himself, he left the kitchen just as he’d entered it; but instead of heading up when he reached the stairwell, he headed down, intent on taking a stroll on the, um, main deck? That sounded right.

Upon exiting the… Well, it wasn’t a building obviously, he believed they called that part of the ship the House? Sounded right… Anyways, trailing along the side of the ship, he stopped short, right where one of the lifeboats should have been strung up-- and maybe swaying slightly in the light ocean breeze-- but there was instead what seemed to be most- if not  _ all _ \- the crew currently in said-boat, and working to bring it back up from the water below. The crew seemed to be going about this process in complete silence, working as if from muscle memory alone. As the lifeboat finally made it up to deck-level, a few of the crew began exiting it, either to further help with securing it back in place, or simply to get out of the way. A few of them though, seemed hesitant to even leave the boat, as if they favoured it to stepping foot against the deck of the Tundra.

Yet as the boat emptied, some of them still stuck around to help secure the boat, while those that had appeared hesitant now looked deeply upset, leaning on their crewmates as they made their way towards the same side door Oliver had exited from. Most of them didn’t even notice him as they passed; which he was getting used to; but of those that did, they seemed shook to their core at the sight of him. Which, alright- he might not leave his cabin often, but there was really no need to look at him like they’d just seen a ghost. It seemed rude.

He stepped further to the side, trying his best to stay out of the way; but it was a motion that seemed to catch the eye of the first mate, who also gave him a double take. Weird, but that was fine; Oliver was fairly certain Tadeas didn’t like him all that much. Still, Oliver forced a tight lipped smile, waving one hand, before risking a sip of his cocoa. It was  _ definitely _ still very hot; but the flavour was nice. And with little else to do, Oliver continued to watch the few crew that remained on deck, catching the occasionally wary glance from those that noticed him standing across from them.

Oliver really tried to look as nice as possible, offering the small smile here and there when he caught their eye, but that just seemed to disturb the crew more. There was really no winning with these people. Still, watching as they worked, their movements fluid, and not a peep passing between the lot of them- it was almost hypnotic to watch. Eventually, the boat was secured in place, and the rest of the crew all muddled their way back to the House. It was only Tadeas who paused, just for a moment. He was eyeing Oliver with his usual lack of expression, so Oliver couldn’t even begin to guess what was going through his head; but the moment seemed to pass quickly enough, and he spoke, “Mr. Blake, what brings you to the deck so late in the evening?”

Oliver fought the urge to shrug. “Just felt for a bit of a walk. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Tadeas continued to stare at him, head tilting slightly. “Did you sleep well, Mr. Blake?”

Oliver blinked at the question. “I- I did, yes. I, um… sorry if I missed something- I assume whatever all this was about would have been very interesting if I’d been awake for it.”

The first mate looked… contemplative, for a moment. “Walk with me-- I assume you may have… questions.”

Oliver frowned, but still obliged as Tadeas walked them back towards the House. “Not really, actually.”

“Not a single question?” Tadeas was walking at a brisk pace, a half-step ahead of Oliver, so he didn’t feel the need to stop himself from scrunching his face as he considered Tadeas’ words. 

“Well, if you’d like me to ask you some questions, I could probably think of a few?”

“Very well.”

“Hm, alright… well… How long have you been sailing for, then?” Oliver had to be quick on his feet as not to bump into the first mate when the man stopped abruptly. 

“I would have expected your questions to be centered around what it is you witnessed on deck.” He said flatly.

“Oh! Oh, no-- I mean, I figure if it was something I was meant to know about I’d’ve been invited. S’alright, I know how to mind my business.”

Tadeas held his gaze for a few more moments before continuing to lead Oliver towards the stairs with the intent to ascend them. “I assure you, I made attempts to wake you, but… you sleep much like the dead, Mr. Blake.”

“Oh…” he wasn’t sure how to feel about that description. But that might explain why his door had been open… but that also would have meant Tadeas had seen-- He shook his head, deciding not to think about it. “That’s my bad, then. And by all means, call me Antonio.”

“I will not.” Tadeas replied coolly, and Oliver decided to then follow behind him in silence. It wasn’t until they made it all the way up to the same floor his cabin was on that Oliver thought to question where Tadeas was leading him; but as they got closer to his cabin, he figured maybe Tadeas had decided to subtly make it clear that he needed to keep out of the way by escorting him back to his room. Yet, as they passed by Oliver’s door in silence, Tadeas made no indication that they were to stop. Which was somehow even more confusing.

“Where are we going?” Oliver asked, mere moments before Tadeas stopped abruptly. The first mate eyed him for only a second before knocking on the door they’d stopped in front of.

“It’s open,” came a call from the other side, and Oliver still didn’t quite piece together whose cabin it was until the door was open and Tadeas had wordlessly ushered him in. “Oh, Antonio.” The Captain seemed completely taken aback at seeing him. “Hello, of course, come in... You look… rather well rested.”

“Oh, thank you?” Oliver shuffled his feet.

The Captain’s quarters were significantly more spacious than his own, which made sense. There was a small sitting area just to the left upon entering, which consisted of two rattan-style chairs angled around a small coffee table. Then further back there was a sort of desk- or possibly just a work table- in the left hand corner, with what looked to be a little ship in the process of being bottled; and stretching across the entire back wall were shelves of books, completed ships, and a few curios that looked to be from all over the world. Of course, it was around this point that Oliver found himself aware of the conversation that had been happening around him.

“Is that so.” The Captain stated flatly, in response to whatever the first mate had said.

“Yes, Mr. Blake was not present with the rest of the crew. He… missed the boat, so to speak.”

Oliver let out a humoured breath, but judging by the twin stares he received, Tadeas’ wording hadn’t been meant as a joke; so he cleared his throat in an attempt to cover the laugh. “Sorry, yes, Mr. Dahl did try to wake me for… well, I assume it was some sort of drill? I was proper out of it though, so at least there was no real emergency going on.”

He almost thought he’d caught a flicker of amusement in Tadeas’ eye-- whereas the captain simply looked nonplussed. He felt awkward as hell just standing there, so he took a sip from his cocoa; unfortunately making a rather loud slurping sound as he did. “It’s a bit cold in here, innit?” He said when still no one seemed keen to break the silence.

It was Tadeas who spoke next. “I must check on the crew now, make sure things are running smoothly.” He gave the Captain a parting nod before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Oliver, for his part, began formulating his own excuses for leaving as well; still unsure why he’d been brought there in the first place. Before he could even begin coming up with anything substantial though, the Captain spoke, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Please, have a seat, Antonio. I-- how are you feeling?”

Oliver eyed the rattan-style chair closest to him, but obliged Lukas’ offer and took a seat. “Uh, bit sore here and there, but, well rested at least.”

“Sore?” Lukas eyed him as he took the seat opposite. “You didn’t happen to get up for an ill-advised walk in your sleep, perhaps?”

“Hm, not that I know of, no. Never been one for sleepwalking, honestly.” Oliver shrugged, looking at his mug.

“I see. Perhaps just a dream that got out of hand, then.”

Oliver shook his head, but then realizing he  _ really _ didn’t want to have to elaborate on that, took a long drink from his mug. The cocoa was still a touch on the hotter side, but it was better than getting stuck in a conversation he didn’t want to have. “How’d you sleep then? Or, um… I dunno, have you even slept yet? Apparently it’s evening already, which. Yeah.” 

“Yes, well you did turn in early this morning, so it isn’t unbelievable that you spent the daylight hours resting.” Lukas eyed him for a few moments, then started, “Well, now I’m sure you may have some questions about the little scene you came across on deck just now.”

Oliver was a little taken aback by the shift in topic, but shook his head nonetheless. “No, not really.” Oliver had already decided that that wasn’t any of his business, and was therefore perfectly comfortable with leaving it at that.

The Captain seemed genuinely surprised by Oliver’s lack of interest. “Oh…” He had that sort of look about him- like when a school kid spent an entire night studying up for a big test, only to come into school the next day and be told the test wasn’t going to happen. Which was a bit weird, maybe? “I… not a single question?”

Oliver took another sip of his cocoa, tapping his nails idly against the ceramic mug as he tried to relax into the chair. Easier said than done, though. “Do you… want me to ask about it?” Shifting forward again, mostly to rub the thigh of his leg that still had a dull, uncomfortable ache resonating through it.

Lukas continued to stare at him, thoughtfully, even. His cold blue eyes seemed almost electric in the odd lighting of the cabin. But despite their luminosity, his gaze still  _ felt _ heavy. Oliver really had no way to explain it. “Only if you want too.” He finally said.

Oliver frowned, turning his gaze upon the mug in his hands again. “I… am not really sure what it is I should be asking about, really. I mean, just looked like some sort of drill, unless that ain’t what it was?”

Lukas nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose that isn’t entirely off-base.” He paused, clearly pondering and choosing his next words carefully. “It is… as much of a  _ drill _ , as it is the preservation of a certain superstition.”

Oliver took a sip from his mug. “Okay… Tell me about this  _ superstition _ , then.” 

The Captain nodded amiably, “Alright, so... There is a superstition, for when the fog rolls thick across the water’s surface, while out in the middle of the sea,” Lukas began, but paused momentarily, clearly choosing his next words carefully. “I suppose you could say this ties in with the myth of bad sailors. Those that happen to bring misfortune to their ship and crew. But, in some circumstances, the unfortunate one is merely of the other crew’s choosing.”

“Unfortunate one?” 

“The one who is left behind.” 

Oliver’s eyes narrowed, but he got that same sort of, well, little brain tingle one gets when you're a young kid sharing ghost stories in a dark room with other kids. “ _ Okay _ …” 

“I believe… Every ship that partakes in this particular superstition has their own way of dealing with the Fog; including the Tundra. When night falls, and the fog grows thick around the ship, the crew will all leave the ship, all of them-- save for the Unfortunate One. The crew gather on the lifeboat, quietly and orderly, and descend into the water. They do not ask who is missing, lest it be decided that they are to be left behind- after all, who can say if there even was anyone truly missing this time.

“Of course, many of the crew are simply relieved to find themselves with a place on the boat, especially as they begin to row out from their darkened ship, left anchored and silent. The fog will begin to roll across the calm water’s surface until they can’t even say for sure if She’s still there. There is utter silence, except perhaps for the lapping of water against the sides of the boat as they drift. They wait, and they wait. How long, none would be able to say, but eventually they do find themselves rowing back to their ship. And should anyone be found missing, no one mentions it, lest they be next when the fog comes rolling in again.”

Oliver exhaled a long breath. “Is that it?” He didn’t mean for it to sound like a rude comment- but if that was the end, it did leave more questions. “Sometimes a sailor just… disappears? Because some fog says so?” Oliver started to take another drink, but paused, “Guess I was right about the ship stopping ‘cause of the fog, though.”

A shiver crawled up his spine, the tips of his fingers tingling. When had he noticed the ship stopped? He knew they weren’t moving, but he couldn’t actually pinpoint when he’d realized it-- and he couldn’t actually recall bringing it up; not until this exact moment, at least.

“Antonio, are you alright?”

“I, um,” Oliver touched his fingers to his forehead as he blinked slowly. “Yeah, yeah… just… feeling a bit foggy, I guess.”

Lukas gave an amused chuckle at this, and Oliver sat back with the oddest sense of deja vu washing over him. “Likely not the best sign, given the contents of the tale I’ve just told.”

Oliver gave a half-hearted shrug. “Not much of a tale to be honest, but it does get the point across, I suppose.”

“Oh? Not a fan of the superstition, I take it.”

“Well, not exactly, I just… feel like it’s lacking in detail. Could make a proper little horror tale out of it but, well… The whole crew leaving the ship, save one person? Seems a bit redundant.”

“Oh really? Care to elaborate on that?” Oliver wasn’t sure, but the Captain had an edge of offense in his tone.

So he paused, considering the offer first. “Hm… maybe I will.” He took another drink of his cocoa, surprised to find it almost empty now. “Okay, so… What if  _ instead _ , the whole crew is present on deck- the lifeboat is prepped for descent, and that fog is just barely visible outside the periphery. That’s when they turn their gazes upon this unfortunate sailor. And there’s nowhere for ‘em to run, and besides, the crew far outnumber the lone sailor; so they get into the boat, either willingly accepting their fate, or by force. Doesn’t really matter, does it? It’ll end the same way.

“So they’re in the boat, and watch as their crew lowers them down into the still water below. Perhaps it’s now that they realize, they haven’t got any oars, and that’s when the ropes holding the boat to the ship go slack, and they begin to drift away, carried off by the ocean waves. They’re all by themself now, in a boat far too big for just one person, and they look up to where their whole crew’s standing, as silent as the darkened ship; and they know that it was that same crew who decided their fate for them. They’ve been abandoned, and now that fog’s getting closer, rolling across the calm surface of the sea until it completely blots out the ship and Her crew. They are lost, they are alone. But hey, maybe if they wasn’t that bad, they’ll find themselves floating on back to their ship; but even if they did, they won’t be the same, will they?"

Lukas seemed… enamoured, perhaps? By Oliver’s new rendition of the tale. Which, at the very least, made him feel better about abruptly dominating the conversation.

“I… Well, that would certainly have made for a better story. If only the perpetrator of the original myth had been half as imaginative as you.” He finally said, a tension that had built up in his shoulders seeming to leave him.

“Aw, thanks,” Oliver decided that that was a compliment. And was actually quite relieved when it seemed Lukas was interested in immediately continuing with more conversation. Honestly, Oliver was fairly certain he’d just said more in the last 10 minutes than he had in the last 10 months.

“It’s interesting, though. I figured at the very least, the tale would have caused you some concern.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Well, now that you have context, does it not bother you that the crew decided to leave you behind on the ship?” Lukas asked, tilting his head as he waited for Oliver’s answer.

But Oliver only shrugged. “Not really. I ended up getting a pretty good rest, so I’m definitely not complaining.” And while the little story had been fun and all, Oliver wasn’t actually convinced that it had anything to do with what had been happening on deck earlier. This was probably some sort of joke the crew put together to try and unsettle the land-dwelling passenger. Which, if it was, Oliver was actually kind of amused by it. Maybe they’d’ve played it up a little more if he’d been awake to participate in the little 'ritual' they’d done.

Lukas seemed to be studying him intently, though. As if looking for some sign that Oliver was being anything other than genuine in his answer. But upon finding nothing of the sort, Lukas relaxed back in his seat, an elbow now propped against the armrest of the chair as he leaned a cheek against his knuckles. “I can’t seem to figure you out, Antonio.”

Oliver pursed his lips before lifting both shoulders and letting them drop dramatically. “I am complicated in the simplest of ways, Captain Lukas.”

Lukas seemed humoured by Oliver’s self-description, letting out a soft laugh. “I am quite inclined to agree. And please, call me Peter.”

“Only if you insist,” Oliver quipped. 

“I do. I do insist.” Lukas replied without hesitation, and Oliver finally noticed that the man rarely lifted his gaze from him-- if he even had throughout the whole exchange. As if Oliver was the only thing in the room that was worth his attention. And now this realization made speaking a bit more difficult when he tried. “Right well, P- um, hm, C-Captain, uh, Peter Lukas, sir, this has been lovely, but, um… yeah. It’s been great.” 

The Captain seemed humoured by Oliver's flusteredness, "There's no need to force yourself. You may, of course, call me whatever's easiest for you."

Oliver let out a nervous breath, rubbing the back of his neck, but still feeling like it was now or never if he wanted to make his retreat. But while getting to his feet, his eyes glanced towards the back work table again, and there was just one question that seemed to nag at him. "Right, um... do you mind if I just ask you one more thing?"

The man's eyebrows rose slightly as he looked up at Oliver. "Certainly. What is it?"

Oliver bit his lip, nose wrinkling as he considered if it really was worth asking but... "Is that a ship on its way into a bottle?" He asked, jutting his chin towards the work table.

There was a spark of surprise in Lukas' eye as he turned to look at the back of the room. "Ah, yes. Not quite finished yet."

Oliver nodded, cupping his mug in his hand, and trying very hard not to start tapping his fingers against the ceramic. "What type of ship is it?" 

The man seemed hesitant to answer, and Oliver had to wonder if maybe Lukas was embarrassed by his hobby. "A schooner."

" _ Schooner _ ." He'd heard the term before, but he wasn't entirely sure if he'd ever actually seen one. And since he was more or less given the chance now to see one, even if it was just a small model of one, he figured he might as well take it. When Lukas didn't seem like he was getting up any time soon, Oliver took that as his opportunity to scoot across the room towards the work table to get a peek. "Has she got a name?" He asked, not getting any closer than what was necessary to get a decent look. There didn't seem to be much more than the base of the ship, and two if the masts (at least that's what he thought the word was) inside the bottle, and Oliver could see the rest of the pieces (sails and the like) spread out carefully around the bottle.

"Oh... the Sahara." 

"Oooh. Like the opposite of Tundra then, eh?" When he turned to look back at Lukas, he found the man standing not too far from him now.

"I... yes, I suppose so. The... The Sahara was the first ship I worked on, before I became Captain of the Tundra."

"Was?" The captain nodded. and it seemed like there might've been a story in there somewhere. "Did something happen to her?"

The Captain nodded with a reserved expression. "The sea can be a dangerous place." 

"Um, okay. Sorry, I'm being a bit nosy, ain't I?" Oliver shuffled his feet, staring into the empty mug he held.

"Not at all. I appreciate your interest; not many people know how to appreciate such a craft."

Oliver gave the shelves a quick glance, seeing all the bottled ships that were present (like, at least 12 of them). "Did you do all of these too?"

“I-- yes. Some of them took longer than others but… I find it relaxing.”

“It’s gotta take a  _ lot _ of patience, doesn’t it?” Oliver said as a sort of afterthought when he felt like he might’ve been staring at all the little ships for a bit too long.

“I suppose, yes.” Lukas’ voice sounded closer now, and when Oliver took a step and a turn, he quite nearly bumped directly into the man; not actually expecting him to be standing  _ that _ close.

“Oh, shoot, sorry about that. Good thing the mug’s empty, eh?” 

“Not to worry, perhaps I ought not to have stood so close.” He started to take a step back, but didn’t quite manage it, his brow furrowing and his gaze set on something. For a moment Oliver thought Lukas was looking over his shoulder at something on the shelves, but when he started to turn, Lukas reached out, brushing a hand against the side of his neck and making him freeze. “What’s this?”

Oliver tensed, confused by the question. “Um, my neck?” He squeaked.

Lukas frowned, shaking his head, “no, this here…” warm fingertips glided across Oliver's skin towards his shoulder, pushing at the loose flannel Oliver was wearing so that it slid down a bit. A shiver ran straight up Oliver’s spine as his eyes darted to look down at his shoulder and…  _ oh. _

“Uh… birthmark. Y- yeah, that’s a… that’s what that is.” Lukas’ attention seemed entirely focused on a mark that stretched from Oliver’s neck and… well, it went a lot further down than that, actually; and it wasn’t really a birthmark either. It was just something that had appeared one day, though Oliver couldn’t remember anymore if it had shown up before his dreams had started, or after. But over the years it had shifted in colour, taking on a sort of red hue until it looked more like some sort of abrasion against his skin. But it’s not like he could say that and not have the Captain look at him like he was a loon.

Lukas’ fingertips traced lower, until Oliver’s shirt was nearly pushed entirely off his shoulder, and he finally seemed to get a grip on himself, reaching up to grip Lukas by the wrist; which succeeded in snapping the man out of whatever trance he’d been in. “I--”

“S’ fine, really, um…” Oliver took a half step back and fixed his shirt so that it covered both shoulders again.

“No, no, that was anything but fine, that was inexcusable.”

Oliver just waved a hand. “Really, don’t worry about it; just… maybe buy me a drink first before you go getting handsy next time?” 

“Yes, of course, I… Oh, that-- what I mean to say--”

“Oh dear,” Oliver pressed a hand to his lips as he tried not to laugh at the Captain’s flustered attempts to speak. “Just take a breath, will you? I… look, I’m just gonna go; give you some space-- but, really not that big of a deal, okay?”

Lukas didn’t seem like he was going to argue, but he did look like he personally thought it was a big deal, and Oliver could only imagine that the Captain would likely spend the rest of the night berating himself. Which… yeah, alright, Oliver was fine if that happened to be the case. “Of course, I-- I must apologize for my behaviour, though. I…”

“Yeah, well, wasn’t too long ago I quite literally fell asleep  _ on _ you, so… guess we’re even, maybe?”

Lukas only frowned, clearly not thinking of the two incidents as being equivalent. “I hardly think the two are at all interchangeable.”

“Fair enough, have fun feeling bad then.” Oliver shrugged his shoulders and started scooting around the Captain so he could make a beeline for the door.

Before actually making any sort of distance though, Lukas spoke up, somewhat awkwardly. “By all means, you are free to go, of course, but I would like to return something to you first.”

Oliver stopped in his tracks, half-turning as he was unsure of what it could possibly be of his that the Captain might have. “Sorry?”

The Captain held up a hand, palm facing out before he turned back to his worktable and seemed to move a few things around before turning back with...

“Oh, my mug.” Oliver stared at the mug in Lukas’ hands, surprised that it would be here of all places. “How’d you end up with it?”

“Ah, well… this morning when you nodded off on the overlook, you almost dropped it; and then afterwards, I didn’t find an opportunity to give it back to you before you closed your cabin door.” Lukas explained as he handed Oliver the mug.

“Sounds about right,” Oliver nodded as he took the mug, holding the other mug he already had in his other hand. He looked inside the mug for whatever reason, half expecting it to still have coffee in it. “Awh… you rinsed it out.”

“Oh, I… yes, I did do that.” Lukas frowned at the mug as he scratched the back of his head. Then, he seemed unsure of what to do with his other hand as at first he put it on his hip, then let fall to his side. Then he clasped both hands in front of him, before finally crossing his arms over his chest with a concentrated expression. “Well, I suppose that will be all.”

“Mhm, yeah. I’ll, uh…” looking down at the mug again, Oliver was reminded of something that he still had that actually belonged to the Captain. “I’ll actually be right back.”

Instead of waiting for the Captain to nod along, or ask why Oliver was going to come back, he tucked one of the additional mugs under his arm to open the door, slipped out, and headed back to his own room. Once there, he placed both mugs down on the small desk space, and grabbed the Captain’s coat. When he returned to Lukas’ door however, he paused, wondering if he should knock first, or just open the door? On one hand, he did say he’d ‘ _ be right back _ ’, but would the Captain consider it rude if he just waltzed back in?

Oliver decided, better safe than sorry, and gave a quick tap against the door, waiting patiently for it to either open, or for Lukas to call out that it was still open. A second later, the door opened from the inside, and Lukas was standing in front of him, clearly unsure of what to expect would be waiting for him on the other side. 

“Ah, yes. My coat, I’d nearly forgotten all about it.” Lukas smiled pleasantly, although it seemed slightly forced, and Oliver could recognize the tired look in his eye. Poor guy probably went to bed around this time, and here Oliver was, dragging out this awkward encounter.

“Well, here ya go.” Oliver essentially tossed the coat into Lukas’ waiting arms, and that seemed to somewhat take the man by surprise. “Have a good night and all that.” Which was probably the closest thing to a proper ‘ _goodbye_ ’ anyone would ever get from Oliver; before he returned to his own room. 

Oliver knew he couldn't have been awake for more than a handful of hours, but he was more than ready to go straight back to bed himself. And, since it was evening, it really did seem like the perfect time to go to bed, all things considered. Still, he paused for a moment, leaning back against his cabin door and exhaling a long sigh. This ship was weird. The crew were weird, and… the Captain… Oliver rubbed the side of his neck, tracing the mark there as he let his mind blank out. 

It didn’t matter. No, Oliver was going to just… indulge in a nice, freezing cold shower, and then hit the hay for the evening.


	5. III. Changing Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curious Captain takes interest in the perplexing Passenger of the Tundra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

Peter had a lot to consider after Antonio had left. Usually, if things didn’t directly concern him, he was fine with leaving well enough alone; but… There was a possibility that what he had learned might actually affect him; depending on the outcome.

Antonio was marked by an entity.

Of course, Peter lacked the same voyueristic power as an acquaintance of his, so he really had no way of simply _knowing_ which entity had left its mark on the man. His first assumption would have been that Antonio had been marked by the Lonely; which had led him on the route to Point Nemo- but no. At the very least, Peter definitely would have been able to pick up on that. But that still left 13 other possibilities. 14 even, if he really chose to think about it. Regardless, Peter had at least one good week before the ship made it to port to figure this mystery out. If it turned out likely that Antonio was marked by an entity that would make him dangerous to the ship, he could easily dispose of him once they hit Colón. Alternatively, Peter wondered, even though Antonio wasn’t marked by the Lonely, was there still a possibility that he could be persuaded into serving The One Alone? It was a rare thing, stealing the interest of another Fear in such a way but... it was possible, in a way that had always intrigued Peter.

But before he could give the idea any real attention, he would still have to figure out which Entity it was that had marked the man in the first place. After all, if this Entity was strong enough to have played a role in stopping Antonio from being taken by the Lonely, chances were it was not something Peter wanted to attempt butting heads with. And it was really only a guess that that was what had happened in the first place.

Thinking now about how he might go about figuring out which Entity it was, he considered how he could mess with the ship’s power, stage a blackout and see how Antonio felt about the _dark_ . And the Tundra traveled all around the world, taking harbour in various countries, there were bound to be at least a few squitterish bugs kicking around. Then again, not all of the Entities had such a… _physical_ side to them. And he certainly wasn’t about to throw the passenger overboard to see how he liked _falling_.

And Peter _definitely_ wasn’t going to ask for help. Besides, there was always a chance that Antonio being marked would have no effect on the ship at large. There were plenty of servants of the fears that didn’t build their entire lives around their patron; though they were few and far between. But there was something about Antonio’s insistence on making it to Point Nemo that had Peter questioning the location’s possible importance. But an importance to which entity? And for what? Antonio was a single person, how much damage could he possibly do on his own?

Not to mention how clueless Antonio seemed to be, just in general. It appeared far more likely that Antonio just _happened_ to be marked, but in no way actually _served_ any of the entities.

Truly, Peter blamed this spark of curiosity solely on the fact that he had spent far too much time in the company of a certain acquaintance.

Still, Peter found it more aggravating that Antonio hadn't seemed to remember anything from his time in the Forsaken. Peter assumed he felt this way solely because it meant he wouldn't get an answer as to how Antonio had managed to stay on the ship when he'd been so keen to leave.

Of course, maybe if Peter had stuck around, using the fog as a veil, he could have gotten his answer. And possibly even an answer to which entity Antonio was marked by. The more he thought on it, the more Peter believed the two were connected, despite the slight impossibility of it. Rare was it that one entity could-- or even would-- overpower another, especially in one's own domain. It simply did not make sense. Unless it did, and Peter simply lacked the cognition to be aware of it.

\--- --- ---

Despite going back and forth throughout most of the evening on whether it was worth his time to even bother with going through the effort of unraveling this many-layered mystery, an opportunity conveniently presented itself the next day. Peter was actually surprised when he found Antonio wandering the main deck in the morning, as a part of him felt fairly certain that as the sun rose, Antonio went to sleep. Yet he found Antonio looking well rested and leaning against the railing at the bow of the ship that morning. Erasmus was darting back and forth between his legs, only stopping occasionally to meow loudly and rub their furry little face against the man's leg, clearly in an effort to warrant more attention.

Peter had to wonder if the ship's cat just happened to manifest wherever Antonio was. But as neither Erasmus, nor Antonio, seemed to notice him yet, he took it as an opportunity to free something that had been skittering around in the pocket of his coat for sometime; placing it on the railing, facing toward where Antonio stood, before retreating to the side, and coming up from behind the man now instead.

"Good morning, Antonio; and cat." He added as the feline stared up at him, blinking slowly, then turning their attention back to Antonio and meowing.

"Morning, Captain." Antonio had turned, leaning casually against the railing with his arms draped comfortably. In one hand he held his usual webbed mug, but the other hand was empty, fingers tapping idly against the rail. Casting his gaze further down to where a rather large insect sat, Peter was intrigued to see that the vibrations of Antonio's fingers seemed to be urging the bug to investigate the source.

“How are you enjoying the weather?” There was a cool breeze, but otherwise, it was a clear day. Therefore, it seemed appropriate to comment on it.

“Well, it’s getting warmer, for sure. I imagine that’s a sign we’re getting closer to our next port.” Antonio smiled easily, and seemed entirely at peace standing on deck.

Perhaps not for long, though. “Still about a week more, provided the weather holds.” Peter added.

“You think it won’t?” Antonio asked casually, shifting to hold his mug in both hands, cradled in front of him as he looked down to watch as Erasmus continued bumping against the man’s legs and meowing softly for more attention.

“Hard to say. There’s usually a sign before a storm hits, but one can never be too careful.” 

Antonio looked back up at him as he talked, nodding his comprehension. “Hm, suppose so.”

It was then that Erasmus made another noise, this one louder, drawing both Antonio’s and Peter’s attention, however Antonio was immediately distracted instead, but the overly large insect that had scuttled it’s way along the railing until it was only an inch or two from the man’s elbow. Peter’s eyes narrowed, ready to gauge Antonio’s reaction.

Antonio’s eyes widened as he seemed to realize what was perched next to him, and for a solid minute he did not move; honestly Peter wasn’t sure if the man even drew breath. Antonio seemed to be stuck in place, up until the bug lurched further across the railing towards him, and his reaction did not imply any affinity for the creepy little creature. Antonio essentially _squeaked_ , the mug dropping from his hands as he hurled himself away from the railing, his legs catching on one another and he all but fell directly into Peter who barely managed to raise his arms up in time to catch the frantic man. 

“Antonio?”

“Is it still there,” the man winced, face buried against Peter’s chest.

“It is, yes.” So Antonio did in fact have a fear of insects, but it appeared to be no more than what most sane people had. “Here, I could just--”

But Antonio was like an immovable weight against his chest, pushing against him. “No, don’t _touch it!_ ” He insisted, then turned slightly, eyeing the insect that sat unbothered on the railing. “Maybe if we just leave it alone, it’ll go somewhere else.”

“Perhaps. Or, I could flick it over the side and we can be done with it.”

Antonio grimaced, as though he truly didn’t believe it would be that easy. “Why don’t we just leave it for Erasmo to get it?”

Peter’s brow furrowed, then he looked to the cat who seemed entirely detached from events and was in the process of self-grooming rather than being of any aid to the situation. “And how long do you think that would take?”

“I-- about a minute, might be two.”

That seemed… oddly specific. Or possibly just wishful thinking. Peter ignored it for now, and instead began reaching towards the insect again, fingers angled to flick it the moment he got close enough. This time, Antonio didn’t impede his attempt, but did have his back pressed firmly against Peter’s chest as he couldn’t seem to decide whether to make a run from the whole ordeal or stay to see the conclusion. An interesting reaction? Perhaps.

Yet, just as Peter was close enough to do away with the nuisance, it shifted, ever so slightly, and Peter just barely grazed it when he flicked. Which did _not_ seem to go over well with the insect which immediately turned to face Peter and _flew_ off the railing, wings unfolding from its backside and making a sharp buzzing sound in the air. Peter pulled back as quickly as he could, but that left Antonio without cover, who let out another squeaking sound before instinctively batting the insect clean out of the air. Peter even heard the small _thunk_ of it hitting the deck.

All of this happened in the span of about a minute; and immediately after the bug hit the deck, Erasmus pounced on it with a mix of curiosity and feline fury. Meanwhile, Antonio had gone for a short walk away from the scene, before looping back, holding his hand out from the rest of him. “I can’t believe I _touched it_. Gross, and- and where did it even come from?”

Peter shrugged, tucking his hands carefully back into the pockets of his coat. “If I had to guess, we likely picked it up when last the ship was in Buenos Aires.”

“Peter, that was entirely rhetorical.”

He likely would have come up with a response, but truth be told, he was too busy being distracted. That was the first time Antonio had called him anything other than Captain- or some iteration _of_ Captain. And Peter wasn’t sure why this mattered; let alone why he even noticed. “Antonio, you’re fine now; the cat has certainly made sure of that.”

Antonio hunched his shoulders, still reluctant to let go of the hand he’d hit the bug with. “I still touched it though.”

Peter moved towards him, taking the hand in his own, turning it over as he did so. “Be that as it may,” Peter paused, noticing the tension rising in Antonio’s body the moment Peter had taken his hand. Really it was no wonder Erasmus liked the man so much, given how cat-like Antonio seemed to be. Peter was really at a loss of words after that, no longer able to recall what else he wanted to say.

Even as Antonio slowly pulled his hand free and took a half step back, Peter just kind of stood there. “Yeah, it’s alright, I just… need to find my _mug_ now, oh dear,” Antonio brushed past him, eyes scanning the deck for his mug, and still Peter couldn’t do much more than tuck his hands back into his pockets, still feeling a bit lost. What was it about Antonio that left Peter feeling like he was constantly walking on eggshells; like any of the usual ways of handling interactions just didn’t apply when he was in the man’s presence. _Complicated in the simplest of ways_ , Peter was beginning to wonder if he actually understood what that meant.

“Oh, found it!” Antonio exclaimed, though in a way that Peter wasn’t sure if the man was actually talking to him or not. “Oooh, not even chipped or scratched.” Antonio continued, rolling the mug around in his hands, clearly searching for some sign that this was incorrect. “Perhaps this day isn’t totally down the toilet just yet.”

“I imagine you still spilled, though.” Peter commented, but looking around the area Antonio had recovered the mug from, he didn’t see any stains on the deck.

“Nah, it was… it was already empty so… another win, I suppose.” Antonio stared at the deck for a few moments, tapping his nails against the mug as he gave a short nod. “Yeah,” was all he added before turning and walking away, back towards the House.

Peter tilted his head slightly as he watched Antonio leave, but was yet again at a loss for what to say. At least this wasn’t the first exit Antonio had made without any lead-up, so he assumed it was just something he’d have to get used to. Of course, this didn’t leave him entirely alone on deck, as Erasmus seemed to finish their impromptu snack, and padded over towards Peter.

He gave a quick glance around before crouching down, resting his forearms against his knees as he reached out for the cat, who seemed more than happy to rub their little face against his outstretched palm. “Well, what do you think of him, then?” He asked the cat, scratching them under their chin as he spoke. 

Naturally, the cat didn’t respond to his question, only purring quietly as they moved in closer to him, rubbing their cheek against his knee before making a gross sound, and regurgitating whatever was left of the insect onto the deck in front of him.

“No, I do not want that.” Peter spoke firmly, but the cat only rubbed against his other knee before padding off across the deck, following the same exit Antonio had taken. Peter stood to his full height, tucking his hands back into his pocket as he felt he could nothing more than shake his head. “Yes, alright then. I see how it is.” He did not.

\--- --- --- 

It was later that day, when Peter had fully retreated back into his cabin; that he came to the conclusion that he likely didn’t _need_ to go about testing Antonio’s reactions to different fears. If Peter knew anything about the entities, it was that there was only a matter of time before they would make _themselves_ known. If Antonio was being singled out by an entity, or even an avatar of one, it would only be a matter of time before the signs of it would show.

Besides, Peter was still the captain of the Tundra, which did still come with it’s own things to worry about; even with a hyper-competent first mate like Tadeas keeping track of everything. That and his first attempt at eliciting a response to one of the Fears from Antonio had left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure now what he’d been expecting, and really it was better to just leave well enough alone. And it wasn’t like any old bug could stir up the same problems as something that was an extension of the Corruption itself; and he’d be damned if he ever let something like _that_ aboard his ship. 

Peter leaned back into his chair. He’d been sitting in his cabin for hours now, and mostly for the sole purpose of reading a simple report. The same report that was only three pages long, and he still hadn’t managed to finish the _first_ one. “Erasmus, how do you avoid distractions?” 

The ship’s cat was lounging in the other chair, and only yawned in response, stretching out before curling themself into a loaf shape.

“Riveting.” Peter deadpanned. He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered bringing the cat into his cabin. He certainly never had before; but when he’d found Erasmus scratching at Antonio’s door, he assumed the passenger had likely turned in and hadn’t needed a disturbance. He didn't know where in his line of thinking that it would have led to bringing the cat inside his own cabin.

Still, maybe he ought to take a page from Erasmus’ book and have a nap as well. Honestly, he felt he’d tried reading the same line from the report at least a dozen times without actually taking it in. He tossed the report onto the coffee table beside him, relaxing back into the chair again, exhaling a long sigh. While the rattan style chairs were rather comfortable, they were not the sort one could actually have a decent nap in. Maybe a trip into the Forsaken would be better; just to help clear his head. He could already hear the soft crashing of waves against undisturbed sand, and the feel of the heavy, numbing fog.

But just as he was ready to take his leave, there came a knock at his door and his eyes snapped open. Even Erasmus seemed to rouse from their light slumber. Peter swallowed a sigh, and sat himself up more. “It’s open.” He called, picking up the report again, more than certain that it was Tadeas at the door. It was around that time, wasn’t it?

Instead the door opened slowly and Antonio poked his head in. “Um, hi-- uh, Mr. Dahl asked if I could bring this up to you…” He moved carefully into the room, balancing a tray in one hand, the other one having needed to be free to open the door.

Peter got up from his chair immediately, discarding the report on the side table once more. “Antonio-- yes, allow me.” He moved over to take the tray from Antonio with ease. “You really didn’t have to go through the trouble, of course.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Happy to help out. And Mr. Dahl always looks so busy, and I was on my way up anyways, so… yeah, it’s fine.”

Peter nodded slowly, but still wasn’t sure if he resented Tadeas for sending Antonio in his stead, or… well, if he didn’t feel any which way about it, obviously. Clearly it didn’t matter, Antonio was here, and that was that. “Well, why don’t you have a seat?” Peter offered.

“Oh, no, that’s fine, don’t want to intrude.” Antonio waved a hand, but Peter just shook his head.

“Nonsense, you’re always welcome, of course.” Peter shifted the tray into one hand, leaning the heavier end against his forearm as he ushered Antonio towards the seating area before closing the cabin door. Then at a loss where to put the tray, he went over to his worktable. He’d recently finished the Sahara model anyways. “I’m not much in the mood for food this early anyhow. And I do feel I ought to apologize for earlier, what with the chaos there was.”

With his back turned he couldn’t see Antonio’s expression when he replied. “No need, it was hardly your fault, just a bit of… excitement to break up the monotony of sailing, I guess.”

The perk of having his back turned was that Antonio definitely couldn’t see his own passing expression of guilt, that he cleared away when he did finally turn back. On the tray had been two mugs, and Peter assumed from the design on one of them, Antonio had placed his own mug there for easy carrying. So naturally he picked up both when he turned around. “I suppose it would appear so, yes.”

Antonio hadn’t taken the open chair, and had instead perched carefully on the edge of the one Erasmus was still lounging on. Why had he let the cat in his damn cabin? “Oh, thank you.” Antonio smiled as Peter offered the dark blue mug with a silver design to him.

“You’re more than welcome to move Erasmus, I doubt they’ll mind.” Peter said it as a suggestion, but really Antonio did not look comfortable given the way he was currently sitting.

“It’s fine, really. I think Erasmo gets bad rep from the crew, so I think they might’ve earned a comfy nap space.” Antonio smiled down at the cat that stretched out, nearly taking up all additional room on the chair; but as if the cat could _feel_ Peter’s ire, they moved off the chair and started padding around the cabin.

“Perhaps the cat disagrees.” But right when Antonio had shifted to sit more comfortably in the chair, Erasmus made a return and immediately leapt onto Antonio’s empty lap.

“Or they’re just a master of manipulation,” Antonio gave a light chuckle as he combed his fingers down the cat’s back.

The cat nestled onto Antonio’s lap, and it seemed entirely on purpose that they would position themself to face their cold eyes in Peter’s direction with a wide unblinking stare. Perhaps the crew hadn’t given the cat a bad enough rep. Peter narrowed his eyes momentarily before shifting his gaze back to Antonio. “How did the rest of your day go, Antonio?”

“Hm? Oh, it was alright. Not nearly as exciting, but probably better for it. Just did some light reading, honestly. One of the crew had one of those tourist-y travel guides for Panama that they let me borrow, so I thought I’d give it a look.”

Peter nodded, taking a sip from his mug, happy to find it was nothing but black coffee without a hint of anything else in it. He could only imagine the pile of sugar that was stuck to the bottom of Antonio’s cup. “Wonderful. Once we reach the port, we should be there for a few days before passing through the canal, so you’re more than welcome to do a bit of exploring, of course.”

Antonio frowned, but also seemed to be trying very hard to hide it. “A few days? Just in port?”

Peter tilted his head to the side. “Usually just a day or two, but it can be busy around the canal this time of year, so we may have to wait longer. And the cargo, of course.” Not that there was any, but still, it would seem weird if he didn’t mention it.

“Right, yeah, obviously.” Antonio seemed… upset, maybe? At the very least he didn’t look like he had expected to be at port for long at all. But he quickly buried whatever emotion he’d been feeling and presented a warm smile. “Guess I should’ve done a bit more research, I must seem like a total idiot.”

“Not at all, this is all fairly new to you, isn’t it?”

“While true, doesn’t mean I have to make a complete ass of myself.” Antonio insisted, even though Peter both disagreed, and felt like there was more to the misunderstanding than what Antonio would have him believe.

“You’re hardly being fair to yourself. One can’t be expected to _know_ everything.”

Antonio snorted, “a fair point.” He raised his mug in a mock toast before taking a sip. 

A strangely comfortable silence began to prevail. Which was odd, given that Peter had spent many years working to make pauses of silence in conversations to seem as out of place and awkward whenever he was a part of them. Yet this one seemed to occur naturally, and he wasn’t sure if there was really anything he could do to change the level of comfort that came with it. The simple fact that he was sharing a room with another person in perfect silence should have warranted some discomfort. Maybe if he thought longer on it he could work himself up to a level of honest discomfort?

It was only a few minutes before Antonio spoke up instead. “So how has the rest of your day treated you?” 

Peter considered the question. He honestly hadn’t done much of anything at all, but given he was the captain of an entire ship, that might seem odd to admit. “Just the usual day to day nonsense.” Which was unintentionally a conversation killer kind of statement.

“Oh, that sounds… fun? I dunno,” Antonio muttered the last bit, and just like that an awkward silence began to stretch out between them.

But it didn’t feel like as much of a win as Peter would have expected. “I did manage to find time to finish my model of the Sahara.” He piped up idly, taking a drink after so he hopefully wouldn’t have to elaborate. Though there was a chance Antonio probably forgot what he’d meant.

The look of intrigue in his eye seemed to imply that he remembered clearly. “Oh? Do you mind showing me? I’d love to see how it looks with all its parts.”

“Of course, it’s just right over here.” Peter had already set his mug down on the coffee table, careful not to put it down on the report, before getting up and heading over to his work table. He quickly noticed Antonio hadn’t followed. Turning back, he saw the look of uncertainty on Antonio’s face, who’s own attention was now solely on the cat still splayed across his lap. “Why don’t I bring it to you instead?”

Antonio’s features relaxed, and he laughed a bit nervously. “That would be lovely-- sorry, every time I try to move ‘em, they start digging their claws into my thigh and… yeah.”

That sounded rather uncomfortable. But still Peter picked the bottled ship up and moved back over to the seating area, saying, “I suppose your lap makes for a comfortable napping place, Erasmus must be keen to keep it for themself.”

Antonio laughed, but it seemed to lack any real humour. Still, he did seem excited to get a look at the Sahara model, but was quickly at odds when he realized he didn’t really have a place to put his mug down; given that the coffee table was already home to the report and a few other mugs, most of which were empty. “Um…”

“Here, I’ll trade you, just--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be careful, of course.” Antonio nodded, trading the mug into Peter’s free hand before taking the model in both of his own hands. “Oh, it’s lighter than I expected.” He commented first, then started peering through the glass of the bottle at all the finer details, his eyes pausing on the deck of the tiny model ship, a smile spreading across his lips. “There’s a little sailor on deck,” he gave a breathy laugh, “that’s adorable.”

Peter could feel an almost indignant blush across his neck and the tips of his ears. It wasn’t _meant_ to be _adorable_ . “I don’t see how being on a ship that size by one’s self could be _cute_.”

Antonio tutted. “It’s all about perspective, Captain. Obviously from this little bloke’s point of view, things are probably pretty tough. Stuck in one place staring out over an empty deck, all while stuck in a glass bottle too-- it’s probably terrible. But I’m significantly bigger, and not trapped in a bottle-- ‘least not to my knowledge, mind you-- and small things are always cuter in that weird way. A life sized model would obviously elicit quite a different response.”

Peter could have argued that Antonio had technically _experienced_ a life sized version of this little sailor’s predicament- but Antonio didn’t remember this due to the fickleness of the Lonely. “Are you an art critic now, Mr. Blake?”

Despite the deadpanned tone Peter had used, Antonio still rolled his eyes with an amused smile “Right I’m sorry, let me try again, eh?” He cleared his throat, but before he could get any words out a bubble of laughter rose up. “Actually, I don’t think I can without sounding like a total prick, sorry.” But he still seemed keen to scan the rest of the ship, surveying every little detail with a look of intrigue and slight awe at all the miniscule details.

Peter bit back an exasperated sigh, leaning back, and without thinking, taking a drink from the mug in his hand. Immediately his tongue was coated in sugary coffee that almost had the texture of syrup. But now realizing this was Antonio’s mug, and the man was sitting right next to him, he couldn’t do more than just swallow it back down. If Antonio noticed any of this, he didn’t mention it.

“Was the real Sahara this same shade of blue?” He asked.

Peter turned his attention back to the ship in Antonio’s hands, rather than continuing to scowl down at the mug in his own hand. “It was, my Uncle Lawrence always made sure to repaint Her on a yearly basis; even helped with the process himself.”

“Your uncle?” Antonio didn’t seem particularly invested in the conversation, but also seemed to not want Peter to feel left out or forgotten as he turned the bottle around his hands.

“He was the Captain of the Sahara, and I suppose I can attribute my own success as a captain due to his mentorship.”

“Oh? Sailing runs in the family then?”

Peter’s brow furrowed, his head tilting as he stared at Antonio, wondering if he was genuinely that taken with the ship, or if he truly didn’t know. Antonio seemed to notice Peter staring at him, and looked up from the ship, cocking his own head with a blank expression.

“Did I say something weird?”

Peter couldn’t speak right away, trying to formulate a proper sentence first. “I just… you have heard of the Lukases before, haven’t you? Or… Solus Shipping PLC? The cargo company?”

Antonio sucked in a breath as if he’d had a eureka moment, but then didn’t exhale as he paused, squinting at the corner, rather than staring at Peter directly as he seemed to be at a loss for whatever Peter was talking about. Finally he let out a long sigh. “No, sorry. I don’t have the first clue about any of that. I- I could google it later? If you’d like?”

“No, no—” Peter was briefly stunned, and then… somewhat elated, honestly. Antonio didn’t know literally _anything_ about him. “I just, it isn’t really that important, I— I just would have assumed you’d done some sort of… preliminary research before you had spoken to me in that bar.”

Antonio sucked on his teeth, face pinching. “I guess I sort of did? I mean, I had a whole two minute conversation with the bartender before I approached you, if that counts.”

“That- That does not, no.” But it did certainly explain how odd Antonio had been when they first met. And Peter could likely attribute Antonio’s original lack of knowledge to why he had not been under the impression that Antonio had been interested in him for his ship. 

Antonio clicked his tongue, but seemed ready to move on to a new topic regardless. “Well, if I didn’t strike you as an idiot before, I probably do now.” He held the bottled ship out for Peter to take, which he did. Holding it firmly in his free hand, he stood to take it back over to his work table, not having picked out a place on his shelf for it just yet. When he returned to take his seat, Antonio was already leaning back in his chair and… seemed to have picked up Peter’s mug off the side table; clearly having mistaken it for his own. “Still can’t wrap my head around how anyone can have the attention span for bottling ships like that. I think I’d either get bored halfway through, or I’d end up mucking it up.”

Peter took his seat again, eyeing the mug in Antonio’s hands and fully expecting the man to notice it wasn’t his own. “Well, I suppose it certainly isn’t a hobby for everyone.”

“No, ‘suppose not.” Antonio held the mug firmly by its side rather than by its handle, while carding his fingers along Erasmus’ back. The cat began purring in response, and Antonio took a drink from the mug.

At this point, Peter genuinely expected Antonio to notice his mistake, but even as his nose curled, he swallowed the black coffee, and proceeded to take a second sip, clearly deciding not to be bothered by the sudden change in flavour. _Complicated in the simplest of ways_ , Peter reminded himself. Though there was something about watching Antonio sitting across from him, but seeming entirely at ease as if he were completely alone. Peter had to restrain himself from disappearing just to test if Antonio would even notice. Then again… 

“So what was it like then, working on a schooner, versus a ship like the Tundra? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

Peter considered the question; then considered giving a throwaway answer about the physical differences between a ship like the Sahara, and a ship like the Tundra. “It’s a difficult one to answer. The Tundra has running water, which is preferable, but… there’s something oddly nostalgic about an old wooden ship. The creak of the deck under foot, and some nights, when the waters were rough, you could put your hand against your cabin wall and feel the waves beating against the side of the ship.”

Antonio swayed slightly as he listened. “That does nice.” He commented in a quiet voice. 

“It is,” Peter nodded, “sometimes I miss the sound the rain would make against the main deck, the way it seemed to echo below, until you couldn’t hear anything else but the droning sound of a downpour.” Antonio smiled softly, but didn’t say anything. “More crew on a schooner though, most of the Tundra is some level of automated, so less crew required for the general day-to-day.”

Peter expected Antonio to say something about how that was a weird comment, but he only nodded. “Easier to keep a healthy crew on a ship like this too, I ‘magine.”

Peter almost voiced his agreement, until the weirdness of _that_ comment struck him. “Pardon?”

“Hm? Oh, I just… y’know there’s a reason ships have been upgraded to what they are now-- old wooden ships are great for nostalgia and what have you, but they ain’t generally up-to-code with today’s standards, that’s all.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Still, that was a weird thing to focus on, wasn’t it? It was getting later in the evening though, so perhaps Antonio was just getting tired. Even if he _looked_ incredibly well rested and awake.

“Anything else you’d like to add? You never did tell me what happened to the Sahara, you know.”

Peter’s last train of thought escaped him as he considered Antonio’s question. “Perhaps I’m not sure if you’ll believe it?” It was rather a farfetched sounding tale, especially if one didn’t have full context. Peter never did… _vibe_ , shall we say, with the Slaughter.

“Try me,” Antonio shifted, or as much as he could with Erasmus still lounging across his lap. But he seemed intent in changing his position so he was facing Peter more directly.

“Well, you must have heard about _sirens_ before, no?”

Antonio’s eyebrows rose, before sinking and coming together. “I have, yes.” His tone wasn’t one of disbelief-- or at least not one that implied that he wasn’t ready to accept whatever tale Peter had in store, rather a tone dripping with interest in what Peter might have to say to follow up a question like that.

“Good, less to explain then.” Peter did love a captive audience, as he was coming to realize. But before continuing, he idly took a drink from the mug in his hand; somehow already forgetting it wasn’t his- but at the same time with each sip he took he was becoming more and more accustomed to the sweet flavour of the coffee.

“Alright, don’t let it simmer like that, continue.” Antonio said, sitting up more in his chair. Was he that interested in hearing Peter give his statement? 

Peter paused, then sat forward, leaning his elbows against his knees. “Actually, maybe another time.”

Antonio opened his mouth, but then huffed out a sigh, leaned back in his seat instead. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did, yes.”

Antonio sighed again, this time shaking his head too. “Alright, that’s fine. But I’ll remember this, don’t think I won’t ask again.”

“Naturally.” Peter replied, curious about how easily Antonio had let the topic drop. But also, there was just something about the… atmosphere in the room, it didn’t feel like the right time to bring it up, honestly. Though even with this line of thinking, Peter couldn’t quite put his finger on what kind of atmosphere the room actually had.

“Fine, alright. Just put a pin in that.” Antonio muttered, scratching Erasmus behind the ears. “I guess I should probably head out anyways, your food is probably getting cold.”

Peter waved a hand, “looked like noodles, they’re always better cold.”

Antonio gave him a weird look. “If you say so,” Antonio clearly didn’t agree, but it was nice that he didn’t outright say it at least. Peter couldn’t help but cast his gaze across Antonio now, looking at him fully, and clearly. He might’ve been reluctant to properly describe Antonio before, but now he was ready to admit that Antonio was a rather attractive person. And Peter had felt his weight against him enough times to know just how perfectly Antonio felt against him. “So what happens next then?" Antonio asked, still not quite making eye contact.

Peter leaned back in his chair again, keeping his gaze firmly on Antonio. “I think that’s up to you.”

“Well, I already tried to pick a topic of conversation.”

Peter weighed his next words carefully, before deciding to speak them. “There’s no reason we have to talk.”

Antonio frowned, but clearly seemed to be considering what else Peter might mean. “I suppose not, but sitting in silence might get boring.” He said, finally meeting Peter's eye.

Peter kept his gaze level, wondering if it would be easier to just admit what he wanted, rather than dancing around the subject. “Perhaps it would be best to just get all the cards on the table; I find you attractive, and I would like to share my bed with you, I have no expectations of course, and if the feelings are not mutual it will not affect our current relationship.” That seemed to encapsulate everything he wanted to say perfectly.

Antonio, on the other hand, stared at him, eyes widening slightly. “Oh, okay.” If he was surprised, it seemed to be because of the words Peter had chosen, rather than the actual contents. “Okay.” 

Peter kept his expression calm, only tilting his head slightly. “Okay?” He hoped Antonio would elaborate.

“Right, yeah, I mean, yeah you’re pretty decent too, um… well, I- I mean, you- you are-”

“I understand. If I’m being too forward-”

“No, no it’s fine, it’s-- you have a very direct way of speaking, and I appreciate it, and what I’m trying to actually say is, uh… weird phrasing on your end, but I’m down for it.” Antonio tensed as he spoke, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck, while his cheeks became quite a few shades darker. “We’ll have to do something about Erasmo though.” He pointed out shortly after.

Peter eyed the cat that was still loafed on Antonio’s lap, and was actually pleased to finally have a reason to get rid of the nuisance. He placed the mug he was holding onto the side table, no longer caring about whether it sat on the discarded report or not, and stood, reaching over to pluck the cat off Antonio’s lap. Erasmus still seemed to be in a state of slumber, and barely did more than let out a soft “ _brrp_?” as Peter lifted them and headed for the door.

When Peter turned back around, after tossing the cat out (gently so, of course), Antonio had already stood up from his chair, but seemed uncertain of what to do after that. But he seemed to be openly casting a heated gaze across every inch of Peter, who no doubt had a similar look in his own eyes. Reaching a hand towards the light switch that was on the wall nearby, he flicked off the main light of the cabin, so that only the dull glow from the lamp on his work table was all that remained. Certainly helped to set the mood, he thought.

And since Antonio still seemed reluctant to make the first move, Peter took it as an unspoken incentive to take the lead. Which was fine, Peter usually preferred that way. Made it easier to set certain boundaries and what have you. As he closed the distance, he reached a hand out to brush against the side of Antonio's neck, tilting his head back and to the side, pleased with the way Antonio's eyelids fluttered at the simple touch. "I- it's been awhile? Since I... y'know, so..."

"I can go as slowly as you need." Peter assured him, wrapping an arm around Antonio's back, and pulling the man against him firmly, eyes still fixated on the mark on Antonio's neck. After all, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to see just how far it stretched, as the twisting, almost root-like, mark against the man's dark skin disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Where did it end? Peter was curious to find out.

"Right, yeah." Antonio licked his lips, pressing a hand down against Peter's bicep while the other hand found the wrist of Peter's hand that was cupping the side of Antonio's neck. Whether this was for balance, or simply a measure of feeling more secure under Peter's grasp, he couldn't say. 

Peter leaned down, pressing his mouth against the tip of the mark on Antonio's neck, before dragging his teeth against the sensitive flesh, feeling a shiver work up Antonio's spine. He moved his hand, tracing the line of Antonio's jaw, before tilting his face up and pressing his lips against Antonio's for a kiss that was anything but passionate. Somehow Antonio still seemed surprised by this move, but melted against Peter only a moment later, pushing back against him, his hands moving to the front of Peter's shirt, where he started undoing the buttons.

He pulled back, taking Antonio gently by his wrists, before guiding him towards the bed. Once there, Peter slid his hands down Antonio's sides before gripping him firmly just below his [butt] and lifting him clean off the floor. Antonio let out a surprised sound, but adjusted easily enough by wrapping his legs around Peter's waist as Peter shifted his grip, hands gliding up Antonio’s back as he bent at the waist, lowering the other man against the mattress with as much grace as possible; as not to let them both flop against the bed. Just standing at the edge of the bed, bent over Antonio, Peter had to take pause and admire him as his eyes flickered up slowly until he met Peter’s gaze. It was odd, given the amount of times Peter had made eye contact with the man, and yet he’d never noticed the warm, yet bright, amber colour of his eyes.

Antonio’s hands moved, tracing along either side of Peter’s jaw, his eyes now following the same curve. He let out a small sigh as Peter shifted, moving Antonio further across the bed, before sliding up against him, Antonio’s legs moving to give Peter space to come in between them.

“Antonio?” 

The man blinked slowly, but his eyes eventually met Peter’s again. “Yes, Captain?”

Peter’s brow furrowed, actually a bit perturbed that Antonio still hadn’t gotten over his apprehension of calling Peter by his name. “I believe this might be easier if you just called me--”

“Maybe,” Antonio cut him off, hands gliding down to pick at the button’s of Peter’s shirt. “But I feel like that might be just a bit too intimate, y’know?” He spoke with a tone that implied his comment was meant to be taken as ironic. But, quite frankly, Peter found himself appreciating Antonio’s oddities more and more. So many things about the man just pulled the word perfect to the forefront of his mind.

Peter only nodded, half shrugging before pulling back, moving out of Antonio’s reach, so the man’s hands dropped down over his own stomach. “As you like,” Peter said, beginning to undo his own shirt buttons himself. “Clothes off.”

Antonio’s eyebrows rose, but he seemed keen to follow the light command. Instead of taking off his cardigan first and then his shirt, he simply stripped them both off, up over his head, and let them fall off the side of the bed, then shimmied further up towards the head of the bed to get some room between himself and Peter to begin taking off his trousers. Peter had immediately been distracted watching him, and as Antonio discarded the last of his clothes, Peter only had his shirt undone but still on, and in an attempt to catch up, had his belt off, and dropped it to the floor. Antonio didn’t seem to mind this, a heat in his gaze as he looked over Peter’s exposed chest; and rather than waiting, he reached out, grabbing either side of Peter’s open shirt and pulling him back down between Antonio’s legs. 

It hadn’t exactly been a cold day, but still, Antonio’s skin was near freezing against Peter’s own, his hands leaving cold trails as they explored along Peter's collarbone, tracing down across his front and down towards his hips, tugging at his trousers to help pull them down. But Peter couldn’t help but let out an aggravated breath, as he'd barely gotten his hands in front of him to catch himself from completely falling against Antonio. “I wasn’t ready yet.”

Antonio’s head dipped as he nipped the skin of Peter’s neck, peppering kisses along his collarbone, while using deft hands to undo the button and zipper of his trousers. “You’re fine, just like this,” Antonio said, yanking on Peter’s trousers till they were around his thighs.

At this point, Peter caught him by the wrists, gently raising the man’s arms over his head and pressing them down against the mattress, shifting so he had him pinned down completely. “And here I thought you wanted to take this slow.”

Antonio matched his gaze with a humorously pugnacious expression. “Weird, don’t remember that being the exact wording.” 

_Cute_. Not a word that usually crossed Peter’s mind. He sat up on his knees, relinquishing his grasp on Antonio’s wrists, one hand immediately finding purchase against the man’s hip, while the either traced slowly down his chest. Following the reddish mark that curled like the root of a tree around Antonio’s body. It was mesmerizing, the way it seemed so organic, a birthmark, was it? Though a fairly large one, for sure. He followed it down across the man’s naval, where it then arched, wrapping down Antonio’s left thigh, and presumably straight down to his ankle. But Peter didn’t have an interest in following it that far. 

Peter shifted back further before leaning down, lifting Antonio’s legs and resting them over his shoulders, before placing his mouth against the inside of his right thigh, nipping carefully at the flesh that was somehow just as cold as the rest of him, but seemed to flush under the attention. Moving a hand back up to Antonio’s hip, he could feel the shiver working up his body as Peter started a trail of nip-marks on the inside of his thigh, heading towards the man’s groin, where his cock was hardening with the anticipation. Peter placed his mouth against the base of Antonio’s cock, sucking gently, and teasing until he was fully hard, then took him into his mouth, right to the hilt, without issue, feeling the man’s cock stretch his lips and hit the back of his throat.

Antonio’s back arched off the mattress as he exhaled a sharp breath, and looking up momentarily, it was clear he was enjoying himself. Peter bobbed his head, parting his lips as he worked his way down, before applying pressure with tongue and [tight?] lips as he pulled back up. Antonio mumbled something, but with the back of one of his hands pressed against his mouth, Peter couldn’t guess what. Regardless, if he continued at this pace, Antonio certainly wasn’t going to last much longer, so Peter pulled back with a flick of his tongue, letting Antonio’s legs slide off his shoulders as he got off the bed entirely. Antonio made a sound of protest, but didn’t really do anything in particular that could have stopped Peter from getting up. 

First, Peter discarded his trousers, then puttered around a bit, searching through the night stand close to the head of the bed for what else he’d need. There was a brief moment of concern where he had to wonder if he even had what he was looking for in his cabin. He certainly hadn't had much cause to make use of condoms or lubricant in some time, but he still found both, giving them a cursory glance for any possible malfunctions, or expiries. Finding no issues with either, he returned to the bed. He had somewhat expected to find Antonio in the same position he’d left him, but instead he was propped up on his elbows, knees together and seemed to have just gotten into this position to look around for Peter when he returned.

Antonio looked up expectantly, and before Peter actually got back onto the bed he said, “Flip over.” Given Antonio’s current position, this seemed like the easiest time to ask; even though, perhaps, his tone didn’t have the words come out in such a way.

Antonio obliged without complaint, or saying anything at all, turning over onto his stomach before getting his knees under him. There was a shakiness in his legs, which was to be expected. Peter got back on the bed, putting a knee down between Antonio’s legs, and nudging them further apart, while placing the lube down on the mattress within easy reach, and focusing on tearing open the condom first.

With it open, he managed to roll it onto his length with one hand, while reaching down to retrieve the lubricant again. This was where he paused, admiring the view for a moment, while placing his empty hand against the curve of Antonio’s backside, appreciating the shiver that coursed up the man’s spine. His skin was still a few degrees colder than what Peter would have expected, and by comparison, Peter was sure his own hands must have felt hot against the man’s skin, no doubt leaving a warm trail as he reached up and traced the mark that curved across Antonio’s lower back. Really, with this new perspective, it was almost vine-like in its shape, curling organically around every part of Antonio it touched. And now, with the main source of light being the pale moonlight that fell through the window over the bed, he savoured the sight of it bathing across Antonio’s dark skin in a way that left it shimmering with blue hues and cold tones; but there was still a dull redness to the mark along his body that was still noticeable even in the dim lighting.

But it wasn't as though Peter could spend the rest of evening just marveling at the sight; as Antonio already seemed to be growing rather impatient. Shifting slightly, Peter popped the cap on the lubricant with one hand, putting a dollop into the palm of his other hand, curling his fingers over to knead the lube around his palm, warming it so it wouldn’t be a cold shock when he touched Antonio with it. Though given how cold Antonio was already, he wondered if it would even come as a shock to his system if he didn't bother. Regardless, it didn’t matter now; the lubricant was warmed to roughly the same temperature of his palm. 

And, perhaps it was best to leave it there. Really, there was no need to go into much further detail, as it was safe to say the rest of the interaction proved to be equally enjoyable for both parties. And after a considerable amount of time, they both laid back against the bed, spent and satisfied with the conclusion. 

Peter was briefly surprised when he laid back against the bed, and only found one pillow available for him to lay back against. And upon looking over to where Antonio lay, he could see why that happened to be the case. The man lay, with his back against the wall, and essentially a wall of pillows between himself and Peter. He quickly decided that this was fine, preferable even, as it was certainly an improvement over the usual aftermath in which past partners always seemed to feel the need to lay overtop of him, trapping him under their weight. This was surprisingly freeing, and as Antonio appeared to be content with drifting off by himself, Peter had no trouble with getting out of the bed and heading into his bathroom for a shower, and some much needed cleaning up. 

When Peter returned to the main room, Antonio seemed completely out, and was now stretched across the center of his bed and breathing steadily. He considered, only briefly, the possibility of laying down next to him again and letting sleep take him, but he was only a few steps from the bed when Antonio roused slightly, reaching a hand across the empty bed, “Captain?” He called out softly, eyes still closed as his hand arched through empty air and landed on the vacant spot next to him.

Nope. No, it was probably best to leave him alone, just like this.

So Peter went about finding some clothes to put on before he exhaled slowly through his nose, and when his eyes opened again, he was standing on the main deck, at the front of the ship. It was nearing midnight at this point, and the breeze of the ocean was cold, but calming in a way. Turning, he could see far back where the House was, a few lights twinkling in the sparse windows, with the occasional shadow of someone walking inside. It was a distance that Peter still found himself able to revel in.

But it was short lived, as one of the crew popped up from behind one of the various crates that were strapped to the top deck, humming along to a tune and sweeping up dried salt from the deck. A task Peter would have assumed the morning shift would have dealt with, given the sparse lighting on the main deck; and though Peter stood very nearly beneath one of the few lights, he did not cast a shadow that would give away his location.

Peter watched them with a narrowed gaze as they moved closer. While they seemed to be doing a swell job, they consistently paused, casting their eyes around the empty deck with wary glances; before setting about their task again and beginning to hum. When they were only a few feet from where Peter stood, he noticed the earbuds, and some kind of music device tucked into their front pocket. 

Which wasn’t necessarily, _not_ allowed, it was still something all crew were requested to keep in their bunks, for the purpose of never being distracted while on deck. Either due to bad weather or… well, for the same reason this particular crew member seemed to be relying on the noise in their ear to calm them after casting wary glances around the empty deck. And though Peter did try to keep to a set schedule for when he fed his patron, he doubted any of the crew would blink twice about an additional, and sudden, disappearance.

“Evening,” Peter leaned casually against the deck's handrail the moment he was no longer unseen.

The crew member jumped, nearly dropping the broom, but managing to catch it in a firm grip. “C- Captain?” They asked, as if uncertain. Which would be fair, given how rarely Peter made a public appearance aboard the ship. “I-- Evening, yes.” They nodded, pulling the earphones from their ears.

Peter did get some enjoyment from startling people, which was probably a good thing, given how often it happened. It would be a shame, really, if it actually annoyed him. “You look new, where did you come aboard?”

“Bakkagerdi.” Iceland, port before last then. Explained the accent, and why they seemed uneasy; the event a few nights previous would have been their first time experiencing the overt oddities of the Tundra. But judging by how they seemed to be trying to hide the earphones meant someone had definitely informed them that listening to anything that could split their attention while on deck was a no-no.

“I see. And what are you listening to?”

“Oh, ah… just… a bit of music. I do know it isn't…”

“Allowed. That is true. Anything in particular?”

Their eyebrows rose at the question, and they stuttered their response. “Um, uh, just… Cher?”

“Oh? One of the good songs I hope.” They gave a confused expression, and seemed even more hesitant to respond. “A trick question, all of her songs are good, of course.”

They nodded, laughing nervously, but didn’t seem to relax at all. But as silence prevailed, the nervousness resulted in a physical twitch, where the crew member continued to try and avoid Peter’s gaze, rubbing the back of their neck, and generally just looking very uncomfortable. It was only about a minute of this, before they just reached into their pocket before holding out their music device to him. Peter had no idea what he was supposed to do with it, but he took it regardless. The screen lit up, and the song name and artist slid across the screen. _Cher - Song for the Lonely._

“Oh that is a _very_ good one.” Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from letting a mirthful laugh escape him. He had considered just terrifying the crew member a bit, but now. _Now?_ Perhaps fate was a real thing after all.

They smiled nervously, eyes flickering from the music device, then back up to Peter. “Would this be the part where you say you have to keep it til’ next port then? So I learn my lesson to follow the rules…” They tried to have a joking tone, but Peter got the obvious inflection that they believed Peter keeping their device would be the best case scenario. What a shame, to waste such a quick mind.

“Not exactly; as I quite think you won’t be needing it, given where you’re going.”

“I-” Panic crept into their tone and body language, as they looked around, perhaps to check if this might be some sort of joke. But Peter wasn’t one to delay the inevitable. He held up one hand, and snapped. Which was a bit dramatic, and an unnecessary flair.

The fear was tangible for only a split second before Peter stood alone on deck. There was a rush of wind, ever so briefly, that left his hair tousled, and his collar ruffled; and Peter was elated as everything felt _right_ . He’d certainly felt good before, but now he was tipping on the brink of _perfect._

All and all, a worthwhile night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Explicit sexual content.


	6. IV. Shore Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tundra creeps ever closer to the port city of Colón.

Oliver was drowsy still, even after a full night’s rest. This wasn’t really that much of a surprise, considering. Even though he knew he was awake, he didn’t open his eyes, instead squeezing them shut as he buried his face into the pillows and pulling what blankets he could get a hold of up over his shoulders and tangling himself up in them.

He couldn’t decide how to feel about what had happened. Like, it was great, for what it was, but… in hindsight it didn’t actually seem like it had been the best idea in the long run. It was an unnecessary complication, given how Oliver had already felt like he was walking on eggshells since he’d first started sleeping properly. Obviously, when he first boarded, he was still reeling at the fact that he was  _ on a ship _ and  _ headed to Point Nemo _ , something that had been such a distant and unreachable goal for so long. And ever since those dreams had started bleeding into his reality, his ability to sleep had been shot to hell to the point that he was hardly lucid most days.

But now he  _ was _ . He had been for days now, and then he went and did something like this, and there had to be some sort of consequence. Surely Lukas might take stronger interest in him now? Maybe looking into who  _ Antonio Blake _ was. Not that he would find anything, but that within itself could cause problems. How could he claim to be all these things to the man’s face, and then have it brought up that there was no proof for any of it.

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breaths, and with each one, forcing the tension from his body until he lay flat on his stomach, legs stretched out, and arms at his sides. No, he was overthinking. He was creating problems where there weren’t any because the idea that something could work out in his favour was just  _ that _ inconceivable, wasn’t it?

Besides, Oliver had fallen asleep alone, and had woken up the same way. Looking around the cabin now, he saw how empty it was, and there didn’t appear to be any proof at all that Lukas had returned after he’d left at some point in the night. No, this was… it was sex.  _ Really good sex _ , but clearly nothing more than that. It’s not like Lukas would turn around and become some possessive stalker. Well, hopefully not. And if that were the case, then to hell with it! A few days and they’d reach Panama, and if things really did take a turn, Oliver could disappear the moment they hit port in Colón. What he would do after that… eh, he didn’t want to think about it. The point was, there are always alternatives, and he was just overthinking.

Oliver exhaled slowly again, repeating over and over again that he had nothing to worry about until he almost believed it.  _ Things are fine, and they will continue to be fine _ ; over and over again he repeated that inside his head.

When Oliver finally sat up in bed, he had no idea what time it was. Pushing the blankets down towards his waist and stretching out his arms, he yawned letting his hands fall down into his hair where he pushed the tangled mess of tight curls back out of his face and gave the room a proper look. Nothing seemed to be moved or out of place, though the tray that had been on Lukas’ work table was missing; and the various mugs that had been collected on the side table in the sitting area were cleared away as well. So maybe Lukas had returned at some point, he just hadn’t stayed.

A relief, honestly. Not that Oliver would have minded the company but… he never really slept well around other people; not even before all the dream-business started. That being said, he’d been proper out last night, so it was possible he wouldn’t have even noticed if Lukas had stayed in the bed. Oh, maybe he had? And Oliver had just slept in longer? Oliver untangled his legs from the sheets and scooted off the bed, finding his trousers laying on the floor not far away, and quickly shimmied into them. He didn’t look for his shirt immediately, as his mind still wandered with growing clarity. Regardless of when Lukas left, he’d be back eventually, right? And… Oliver eyed the side table again, noticing that his mug wasn’t there either. What were the chances that Lukas had gotten up first, and decided to take everything down to the kitchen, and could very likely be on his way back up with  _ two _ mugs of coffee- maybe even breakfast. It was a cute idea, and it made Oliver panic slightly, reaching down and picking up the first shirt his eyes noticed and throwing it on, tiptoeing over to the chairs to find his slippers that he slipped right in to, and then headed for the door. He opened it carefully, buttoning up his shirt with one hand while peeking out into the hallway, finding it blissfully empty. He slipped out of the cabin, pulling the door closed behind him, but just as he took his first step in the direction of his own room, he heard a voice down the hall.

“Captain, good morning. Did you have a chance to read over the report I gave you last night?” Oliver’s eyes darted down the hall to his right, where Tadeas stood near the stairwell, talking down it, where Oliver could only assume the captain was standing.

“I perused it, of course. I thought it best if we went over it in more detail together, though.” Lukas’ voice drifted down the hall as he stepped out of the stairwell,  _ two mugs  _ in hand, though as he walked in Oliver’s direction he kept his attention on the first mate who walked beside him.

“So you did not read it, then.” Tadeas deadpanned, looking forward, his gaze landing directly on Oliver, who had now gotten to his own door and had his back pressed against it. Oliver held out one hand, palm forward while reaching for the doorknob with the other, eyes darting to Lukas before he looked at Tadeas again, and a gave a small shake of his head before he got the door open behind him and slipped into his room, only catching the slightly confused frown that crossed Tadeas’ face before he carefully and quietly pushed the door closed.

Oliver leaned against the door, letting out a deep exhale as he hoped Tadeas had managed to pick up on the vague and abstract point Oliver had tried to convey. His hopes were not high, to say the least. Still, now in the safety of his own cabin, Oliver could at least try to convince himself to relax, leaning back from the door and puttering further into the room to flop down on his own bed. It was cold, and the mattress wasn’t nearly as soft as whatever the hell the Captain’s bed was made out of. That had been plush in all the best ways, and while that might cause issues with Oliver’s back later, it had been the most comfortable thing he’d slept in in a real long time. But at least this bed was  _ his _ ; for the time being anyways.

Honestly, Oliver would have liked nothing more than to take a nice long nap right there, but with his heart still thumping in his chest due to all of his overthinking, and possible overreacting, he was wired more than what he’d’ve liked. But, he could definitely go for a quick shower, which would make him feel better in all accounts. Not that he felt  _ bad _ , per say, it was just… there were a lot of variables that seemed to be at play, and Oliver didn’t know how exactly to codify them in a way that he could look at it all with a clear head.

He sighed again, sitting up and rubbing his neck, then rubbing his face, then… just left his head in his hands as he pulled his knees up to his chest and just breathed. He just needed to _chill_ _out_. Probably wasn’t healthy to have his heart beating so fast after only waking up a handful of minutes ago. Honestly, how did people wake up early in the morning and think, ‘I should go for a nice long run.’ -- it sounded dreadful.

A sharp knock at his door made him jump, nearly lifting off the bed as his muscles all tensed in unison. But he did not make a sound. Maybe it was Tadeas? Come to ask what the hell his little charade had been about? Incredibly wishful thinking.

“Antonio?” He heard the Captain call from the other side of the door. Because  _ of course _ it would be him.

Oliver pressed the knuckles of his left hand against his mouth, quietly slipping off his bed and moving slowly toward the door. Why? To open it? To lock it in case Lukas tried to open it? That seemed incredibly extreme, so definitely not the latter. 

“Captain.” Tadeas' voice filtered through the door, sounding further away than Lukas’ had.

“Ah, Tadeas. You’re still here.”

“I’m still waiting to get the report back. I assume you won’t be reading it anyways.”

“I… Well, I was just looking for our passenger, he left his mug in my room when he stopped by last night, and thought I would return it to him.”

“How thoughtful,” god, Tadeas really had a way of speaking that made everything sound like he was being  _ super _ judgemental. “But if it helps, I don’t recall seeing him turn in last night, perhaps he’s still out on the deck, or in one of the rec rooms?”

Oliver actually found himself pressing a hand down on his chest. Tadeas had understood after all, what a complete and utterly relief that was.

“Oh, I see… well, perhaps I’ll just leave his mug down in the kitchen then.”

“Allow me; and when I return, we can finally discuss the report.” Tadeas spoke firmly.

There was a pause, before Lukas conceded. “Of course, I’ll just go wait for you, then. Here,” Oliver could only assume his mug was in the process of changing hands, and then the sound of footsteps walking away from his door; another door opening, and the click of it closing. But that had only been  _ one _ set of footsteps.

Feeling safe in his assumption, Oliver carefully opened his door a crack, peeking out to see Tadeas standing not too far away. “This would be yours I believe.” He spoke in a quiet tone, holding the mug out.

“Yeah.” Oliver replied just as quietly, sticking a hand out of the door to take it from him. “Thank you.”

Tadeas said nothing, merely turned, and headed back down the hall, and Oliver closed his door again, taking the mug in with him carefully, as not to spill the liquid inside of it. At a passing glance it clearly wasn’t coffee, but Oliver didn’t want to know what it actually was. But he did. He did know. His mug was full of hot cocoa, and there even looked to be a sprinkle of cinnamon over the top. 

\--- --- ---

Oliver spent the rest of that day inside his cabin, only leaving for the briefest of time to go down to the kitchen for something to eat. That had resulted in having probably the longest conversation he’d ever had with the cook, which lasted from when he’d started eating, leaning against the counter that was the furthest out of Loreto’s way, until he was finished. This alone had him putting his guard up, given how quiet the cook had always been; though it wasn’t really a conversation with any heavy content, Oliver had just idly asked what they’d been cooking up, and Loreto had explained in quite a bit of detail exactly what they were making, how they were making it, how long it would take-- it was almost like a dam had burst and Loreto was just looking for an excuse to use their voice. Which was fine, Oliver had always preferred listening rather than speaking himself, but it was still jarring at just how many words Loreto could get out in the span of twenty minutes before Oliver excused himself and headed back up to his cabin, holding a container in his hand that Loreto insisted he take with him and try later when he was feeling peckish again. 

All in all, the whole encounter left him feeling a bit dazed as he walked back to his cabin, noticeably walking softer as he passed near the Captain’s, certain that if he got too close, the door would open, and then… well, he didn’t know what would happen then, and he’d like to keep it that way. As things were, nothing had technically changed. Oliver was still generally going about his day as he normally would, though he avoided going out on deck- but he’d been wary of doing so since the whole bug-incident thing, so technically that had nothing to do with what happened last night. And besides, Oliver was actually invested in doing a bit of light reading anyways, he’d recently come across a part in one of the Geographics he’d picked up about something called  _ Red Tide _ , and it seemed to have to do with a type of bioluminescent algae, which all sounded very interesting. And with any luck, maybe some of it would stick, and then he’d have something to talk about that would sound work-related.

Plus, he needed to at least try to get to bed early, since Loreto had requested his help for the next morning; they wanted to make up some fresh loaves of bread, and when Oliver had mentioned how much fun bread-making was, Loreto had  _ insisted _ that Oliver give them a hand. And it wasn’t like Oliver had an excuse for why he couldn’t. And there was something relaxing about kneading a pile of puffy dough anyhow. Oliver entered his cabin, mind preoccupied with thoughts of mixing and pressing the required ingredients together to make a good loaf, he hadn’t pulled the door closed behind him. He didn’t notice until he turned back, feeling a cold chill pass over him that made him shiver. Seeing his door was still open, he sighed, rolling his eyes and deciding to put the container down on the desk first.

When he turned back, he nearly jumped out of his skin, seeing a looming figure standing in the doorway, that only after a few sharp exhales he recognized as the captain. “Oh-  _ cripes, _ you scared the hell outta me.”

“I would have knocked but,” he gestured to the open state of the door. “And you turned before I could announce myself.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed at that, given that he’d only been turned around for a few seconds and Lukas definitely hadn’t been anywhere near his door before the exact moment Oliver turned around. “Right.” Oliver nodded carefully, leaning back against the desk, rather than moving closer. “Did you… need something?” He asked, trying to sound casual.

“I just wanted to ask how you were doing… you were gone when I came back.”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Um, you?” Had Lukas expected him to stay? Have a nice morning-after conversation? Oliver reminded himself that he needed more to go on before he came to any assumptions.

“I’m well, thank you.” 

“That’s good,” Oliver spoke mostly because he felt like he had to, the various long pauses between such a short conversation were toeing the line between awkward and tedious. But right when he started to speak again, Lukas also started talking, so just a jumble of half-sentences filled the air before they both went quiet again. “You first,” Oliver waved a hand at him, before crossing his arms over his chest.

“Right, I… I haven’t done something wrong, have I? If I was too forward last night, or--”

“Oh, no, I-” Oliver shook his head, leaning his head back and sighing, “No, you were… you were great, um… why don't you come in, we… should probably still talk, just, yeah.”

Lukas seemed hesitant, but nodded, entering the room, before grabbing the door handle to push the door closed behind him. "Let’s talk, then."

"Right, yeah..." Oliver bit his lip, before sighing, realizing that if anything was actually going to get said, he'd have to stop thinking about what happened last night like it'd been some grungy one night stand. And they were both clearly adults, so talking about... sex, shouldn't be that hard. "You wanna sit? You don't have to, obviously, I mean, I... I don't think this'll take long, just... just need to go over a few things, I guess?"

"I don't mind standing."

"Great." Oliver drummed his fingers against the desk behind him, before he just pulled himself up onto it, crossing his legs and sat rather comfortably on top of it. "Alright, so, first things first-- What happened last night... one time thing?"

Lukas tilted his head slightly, clearly considering the question. "It... doesn't have to be. But, if that is what you would like, then certainly."

"Okay, so... I mean, I... I wouldn't be against, y'know... doing it again. But... to what end?"

Lukas frowned for a moment, before he seemed to understand what it was Oliver was trying to say. Which was amazing, because even Oliver wasn't entirely sure of what he was trying to say. "I see..." Lukas began, before laying it all. “Well, this is something that started casually, so if it were to continue, I wish it to stay that way. It is, and I hope you don’t take offense at my wording, something convenient, and not something I would like to pursue once you leave the Tundra.” 

Oliver leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Yeah, no… I mean, yes. Or...” Oliver had got stuck between trying to shake his head and nod at the same time before he finally just stopped moving his head altogether. “Y’know, I actually like that wording.  _ Something convenient _ , it’s got a nice ring to it.” 

Lukas eyed him, but seemed pleased that his answer was exactly what Oliver had been looking for. “So we are in agreement on all counts then.? 

“I… think so, yeah.” Oliver said. Then added, “so then, if this is going to be a… thing of  _ convenience _ , how might we go about it? I don’t think it’s something I can necessarily put on a schedule, but I mean, I could try if that works for you?” Now that absolutely sounded ridiculous, and Oliver felt like a tool for even saying it out loud.

“I don’t think there will be any need for that, no. Rather, you or I ask the other how they’re feeling, if moods align…” He trailed off.

“Yeah, okay, that- that definitely sounds a lot better, I have no idea what I was thinking.” 

Lukas smiled, and Oliver wasn’t sure if it was just to humour him or not. “Anything else you might want to cover? I’m open to suggestions and the like of course.”

“No, I think that’ll be all. Anything else can be covered when it comes up, probably? And like, if I don’t like something, I  _ will _ tell you, I don’t do the whole suffer-in-silence thing, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Good, I appreciate that. Clear communication is important.”

“Yeah,”  _ Yup, yes, uh-huh. Oui?  _ Oliver bit back a sigh, rubbing his cheeks with his hands as he tried to clear his head. They were in complete agreement. Nothing serious, just casual- casual… stuff. Now that Oliver thought about it, maybe this was a good thing? Setting this sort of thing up? Then when they got back to Southampton, Lukas would be unlikely to ask for his details, and maybe he’d be able to just… slip away without ever having to worry about the consequence of lying his way aboard to begin with. Okay,  _ that _ might just be wishful thinking.

“Antonio?”

Oliver blinked, looking back up to meet Lukas’ gaze. “Hm?”

Lukas gave a short pause, before asking, “how are you feeling?”

Oliver frowned. Didn’t he already answer that when Lukas first showed up? Oh,  _ oh _ . “Oh.” Oh. “I’m good.” 

Lukas tilted his head, clearly unsure how to take that response. “Good?”

Oliver gave a breathy laugh, feeling the air squeeze out of him as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, right now? Here?”

Lukas looked around, clearly not seeing anything wrong with the place, which was fair. After Oliver had returned that morning, he’d used up all his nervous energy to give the place a deep clean, and even found a hamper in the small on-suite bathroom. But still… Lukas definitely had the nicer bed. “We could go to my cabin if you prefer.”

That answered the  _ where _ , but like..  _ Right now _ ? Oliver let his gaze travel over Lukas for a moment, eyeing his jaw, the curve of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders… “Yeah, okay.”

\--- --- ---

Now, when Oliver had said earlier that he needed to have an early night; passing out in the late afternoon had not been what he meant. When he woke, it was still evening, or at least the sun hadn’t risen quite yet. He was back in his own cabin, that he’d retreated to the moment he’d realized in his dazed stupor, Lukas had already left. He’d barely pulled any clothes on before making the short walk of shame to his own cabin; and was infinitely thankful no one else seemed to have been about. He wasn’t sore, or anything, which was a blessing, but he was tired in all the right ways that allowed him to slip into an easy slumber. Of course his sleep hadn’t gone entirely uninterrupted, as he still had a dream. Though there was a sort of calmness to it...

He stood on the main deck, the ship bathed in an off-coloured orange glow. All around him, it was quiet, the ship swaying steadily on the sea. The Tundra didn’t move when he dreamed, though the water still lapped against the side of the ship, and if he stared for too long into the roiling depths, he caught stark glimpses of something moving, twisting beneath the waves. But it was always easy enough to ignore. And like this, he could travel the whole ship, even peeking into places he normally wouldn’t go. The engines were silent, and there was no one on the ship-- the crew were all healthy, so they wouldn’t appear here. Though he did catch sight of the occasional dead mouse or rat; proof that Erasmo did have a job aboard the ship, aside from being a nuisance to most of the crew. But it was easy enough to avoid those places, staying up on the main deck, or walking through the hallways of the House. He could walk from one end of the ship to the other without waking, and without feeling tired, which he always found interesting, even when he’d been back on land.

All and all… the dreams themselves had never been the problem; for when he was in them they always filled him with a calm sense of certainty that he could let himself be taken by. No, it was upon waking up, after seeing the face of a friend, or an elderly neighbour,  _ knowing _ what would happen to them, but not being able to do anything about it. But those images and sights couldn’t reach him out here. It wasn’t until his third loop around the deck that he woke.

And it was only 3 in the morning. Which meant it was just as quiet on the ship now as it had been in his dream, though he could feel and hear the steady rumble of the engines. There was only one thing that bothered him about how the ship was ever churning forward. They would reach Panama soon. The city of Colón was filled with thousands of people, and Oliver wasn’t excited to see it at all. Not given how he saw things. 

But for now, all he could do was catch up on as much sleep as he could, and wait out being in port. Who knows, maybe with some time away from all the people, he might find himself less bothered. And it wouldn’t be a place where he would recognize anyone, so that might help? But Oliver knew it wouldn’t, not really.

He took a quick shower, changing into something comfortable. A pair of old jeans and a red flannel that was a few sizes too big, and was probably older than he was; the material having gone soft before it had been left for him. He slipped on his slippers and left his cabin. Oliver wasn’t really heading anywhere in particular, just outside for some air. He didn’t go up to the bridge though, just out to the main deck, and towards the bow of the ship. He didn’t pass anyone as he went, though he was sure he heard light conversation on one of the floors in the House as he passed by. Proof of people at least.

Oliver leaned against the railing, staring out towards their destination, some part of him wondering if he might be able to see it from this distance. But that was ridiculous, they were still four, maybe five? Days out from port.

He jumped when he felt something brush up against his leg, looking down immediately, only to see Erasmo rubbing against his leg. “Am I a magnet for you?” Oliver mused, reaching down and lifting the cat up, tucking them into the crook of his arm so he cradled them. “I don’t have treats, so I don’t know why you like me so much.”

“You give him attention, that’s why.”

Oliver tensed, squeezing the cat closer to his chest in a way that made Erasmo flail their arms, batting against his chest. He relaxed ever so slightly as he turned toward the voice. Someone stood just off to the side, leaning their back against the railing, a lit cigarette between their fingers. “Oh, hello.” 

The man eyed him for a moment, then took a draw from his cigarette. “The crew don’t give him attention. We find he works best when left alone. Doesn’t expect attention? Doesn’t go looking for it, just does his job.”

Oliver looked down at the cat that was currently in the process of sticking a loose strand of Oliver’s hair in their mouth, before batting at it for not tasting good. “Sorry, guess I should just…” He held the cat out but before he could put them down, the stranger shifted, shaking his head.

“It’s fine, Erasmo expects it from you now.”

Oliver was still holding the cat out from himself, unsure if he should keep holding them, or still put them down. He decided to keep holding Erasmo, because the cat had a lot of warmth, and Oliver hadn’t worn a sweater. “You call him Erasmo too, then?”

He frowned, “doesn’t everyone?”

“Mr. Dahl calls him Erasmus, so does the Captain. Loreto calls him Erasmo too though.”

Something about what Oliver said made the stranger stiffen. “You speak with the Captain often?”

The answer was actually  _ no _ , seeing as even before they started… being casual, they hadn’t spoken much, and now that they were… casual… even less was said between them. But Oliver wasn’t about to say  _ any _ of that. “Not often, no.” He shrugged, “I’m- uh, I’m Antonio by the way, y--”

“I know who you are. You’re the passenger that has us sailing out to the middle of the Pacific.  _ Loneliest place on earth _ , they call it, eh?”

For some reason, Oliver had never actually thought about it that way. But the stranger was right. Which added a whole other layer to the messy parfait his life was becoming. He’d essentially told some bullshit story to a guy in a bar and that had led a whole ship to being steered in a direction that, more than likely, only  _ he _ wanted to go. God, they were gonna be  _ so _ pissed off when he skipped out without paying a dime for all this. 

“Point Nemo, yes. I… apologize if it’s caused some issue with the crew; I honestly hadn’t expected Captain Lukas to agree to my request.” Which was very true, and he still couldn’t quite believe it. But it was always a fleeting thought that seemed to be plucked away from him whenever he tried to think about it for too long. 

The man just shook his head. “Not so surprising, really. Captain likes places like that; probably happy to have a reason to go. Better than when he had us go up to the freezing middle-of-fucking-nowhere Norway. Pacific’s warm, at least.”

Oliver nodded slowly, not really sure what kind of response was expected from him, so he just went with his gut. “I don’t think I caught your name?”

“Didn’t give it.”

_ Alright, that’s fair… _ Oliver had sort of used a similar line before when asked about something he didn’t want to answer, so he could vibe. “How about a nickname then? A title, maybe?”

He paused, “Kim, third mate of the Tundra.”

“So I’ve met the first and third, where’s the second mate hiding?”

Kim shrugged. “We don’t talk about her anymore.”

Oliver tensed. “Pardon?”

“Left to start a family, no one ever took her place.”

“Oh, right.” Oliver exhaled a quiet breath, unsure of what explanation he’d been expecting.

Kim finished his cig, and flicked it over the side of the ship, eyeing Oliver as he pulled out another, then held the pack out to him. “Care for one?”

“Oh, I-” he paused, feeling Erasmo shifting his arms. “Actually why not, sure.” Oliver wasn’t a smoker, but, well, if having the one was going to kill him, it clearly wouldn’t be in the next ten days. He cradled Erasmo in one arm, plucking a cig from the pack, then leaned in as Kim offered a light. He tried not to read too much into the heavy eye contact as he leaned back, taking the first drag and looking out over the water instead.

“Have you been to sea before?” Kim asked before lighting his second cigarette. 

Oliver shook his head. “Been out on a boat a few times, when Dad still thought I’d take an interest in fishing.”

“It didn’t take? I heard you studied marine life.”

Oliver took another drag, thinking about his answer, and deciding the truth would be fine. “The fish were interesting, and catching them wasn’t the problem, it was… well, I always ended up letting them go.”

“Sign of a gentle soul, nothing wrong with that.” 

Oliver gave a tight smile. “My dad said something similar, after about the third time and he realized if he wanted to have anything to bring back for dinner, he’d have to stop taking me with him.”

“He sounds like a good man.”

“He was, yeah.” Oliver took a longer drag, feeling a tingle from the nicotine as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Ah, I’m sorry for your loss.” Kim shifted, and it was only now that Oliver realized he was standing right next to him now. 

“It’s- s’alright, was a couple years ago now,” and Oliver still felt guilty about it, even though logically, he’d done everything he could. “Ah, what about you? What got you into the sea-faring business?”

Kim shrugged, “Pay’s good, and I never felt quite right on land, always felt a pull to the ocean; the way the waves can crash against the shore one sec, and be calm the next. Always wondered how sailors managed to fair out on a sea that never seemed to make up its mind.”

Oliver tilted his head at this, “And now?”

“Now, I know exactly how they manage it; and I can’t for the life of me imagine being anywhere else in the world.”

“Oh, I-- that all sounds very poetic.” 

“Yeah?” Kim arched a brow, “I think you’ll find I can be  _ very _ poetic if I want to be.”

“Hm, sounds like you’re  _ fishing  _ for a challenge, in which case, no dice, my friend.”

Kim shrugged a shoulder, taking a drag. “I can toss a line, but it’s up to the fish whether it bites or not.” 

Oliver bit his bottom lip, eyeing Kim out of the corner of his eye. He got the feeling Kim wasn’t actually… talking about fish. “Hard to bait a fish that’s already well-fed.”

Kim shifted his position so he was facing Oliver, eyebrows raised, and an expression that looked both intrigued and disappointed. Oliver had to try not to curse under his breath for having said anything. What was it his grandmother had always said?  _ Erst denken, dann reden _ ; not something that was difficult to remember, and yet… “Is that so?” Kim said, interrupting Oliver’s line of thought.

Oliver cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders, bouncing Erasmo gently in his arm as the cat purred against his chest. “Right, um… nice weather we’re having, innit?”

The man beside him chuckled, tilting his head. "Good weather, yes." He agreed, then added with a shift in tone. "So someone's beaten me to the punch, have they? Must say, I'm surprised, thought I might throw my name into the hat first."

Oliver finished his cigarette, flicking it over the railing as Kim had done, cradling Erasmo in both arms as he kept his sight focused forward. "Should I expect more attempts at… at  _ wooing _ , then?" All he could do was hope Kim wouldn't ask  _ who _ had "beaten him to the punch" as he put it.

"Perhaps, but I can let them know you've already been spoken for." Kim offered.

Oliver considered, but then started thinking about it more… There was a definite chance that if word got around that the Tundra’s passenger was sleeping with someone on the ship, it could turn into a beating pool for the crew to figure out  _ who _ , and Oliver wasn't sure how that might turn out… "No, no it's fine; I'll just have to shoot them down as it comes up, don't worry about it." 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Kim shrugging, flicking the butt of his finished cig over the edge and leaning against the rail. "As it is, then." There was a pause, "so…"

"Not important." Oliver cut him off, already aware of what question he would ask by his body language alone.

Kim sighed, nodding his head. "ship's got all kinds of secrets, why not add a few more to make it interesting. But… if you should get bored with this mystery person…" Kim winked at him, then turned to leave, and Oliver didn't stop him.

Good lord. Should Oliver have been that surprised? The ship had a small crew, it didn't seem that out of sorts for there to be some tension to arise from having someone  _ new _ aboard. Maybe it was because he would have expected it sooner, after the first two days, rather than a full week and some change out. But then the crew only recently seemed to find some ease about them. It was all very confusing whenever Oliver tried to dissect what sort of…  _ whatever _ the Tundra had going for itself, so… he just stopped. Thinking about it.

Besides, a few more minutes staring blankly towards the horizon, he decided it was about time he put Erasmo down and went to the kitchen— if Loreto wanted to start baking bread, the earlier the better, usually. And even if the cook wasn't around, Oliver didn't really have any qualms about starting without them. It would be nice, kneading some dough between his hands, and not thinking about anything except how to get the best rise from the bread.

So that's what he did.

— — —

Loreto was already in the kitchen by the time Oliver had gotten there, a little past 4 in the morning now, and seemed excited to get started. Word was, while Loreto was an exceptional cook, they struggled a bit with baking and the like; in the case of bread, always having it come out too hard, or too flat. But Oliver was happy to help out and give some pointers. And even if a few loaves turned out a bit tough, well, Loreto was making a soup for dipping the bread into for that night's dinner anyways.

It wasn't until around 7am that anything of note happened. Namely, Oliver was getting tired of having to brush his hair out of his face, no doubt getting flour all over himself in the process. So asked if Loreto had a hair tie, then realized the problem with that, upon seeing Loreto’s short, close cropped hairstyle.

Loreto sucked on their teeth, checking the dough that had been set aside to rise (they were using a 2-step rise method), then said, “this still needs to sit. I’ll ask Bobo if they have a tie for you.”

Oliver arched a brow, “ _ Bobo? _ ”

They only nodded, wiping their hands on their apron before taking it off and shuffling out the side door. Oliver just shrugged, clicking his tongue as he returned to the lump of dough in front of him. It was the last of batch-2 that needed to be kneaded before it could be put into a pan and ovened. And likely by the time Oliver was finished kneading the air bubbles from the dough, he’d be able to take the other loaves out of the oven and put them on the rack to cool.

He’d just flipped the dough onto the counter a second time, reaching to the portioned flour to the side to coat his hands again when he felt a presence somewhere behind him and a slight draft entering the room. “Hey, you get that hair tie for me?” He asked, pressing the dough down, and flattening it before flipping it over itself and repeating the motion. 

When Loreto didn’t answer, Oliver turned, freezing for a moment to see Lukas standing over his left shoulder, quietly watching as Oliver had been kneading. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. A hair tie, was it?”

“Um… yeah, Loreto went to find one for me, hair’s getting in the way, and probably should have put it up before I started, but didn’t think it would be such a bother. Don’t think I got any into the dough though, so that’s a silver lining.”

The Captain nodded, placing the mug he’d been holding on the counter near the electric kettle. Then, he reached in the inner pocket of his coat and produced a hair tie. “Will this do?”

Oliver blinked at the navy blue coloured band in the man’s hand, then realizing he hadn’t actually responded, he nodded. “Yeah, that- um, just give me a sec. Gosh, I swear I did pack some for the trip, but, ah- when you need one, they’re always nowhere to be found.”

“Indeed, and when you don’t need them, suddenly they’re everywhere?”

Oliver laughed, “precisely, yes- do you mind?” Lukas was standing in the way of the sink behind him, but he didn’t seem to realize that that was what Oliver was referring to.

The Captain nodded, “of course,” he replied, moving in close with the hair tie wrapped around finger and thumb and reaching up to comb his fingers through Oliver’s hair, catching stray curls to put up.

Oliver was too stunned to say anything. While that hadn’t been what he’d been referring to  _ at all _ , frankly, it would probably be better. He really needed to get this bread done in time for the timer so he could rinse his hands before taking out the other loaves. “Ah, yeah, thanks.” he turned rigidly back to his task, Lukas moving in unison so as not to pull Oliver’s hair as he kept trying to gather all the loose ends.

“Your hair is very thick.” Lukas commented, and Oliver could hear the concentration in his tone as he felt a slight tug of Lukas wrapping the tie around his hair.

“Um, yes. Yes it is.” Oliver wasn’t sure what else to say to that, so he returned his attention back to the dough in front of him instead. Oliver gave a quick, “thanks for that,” when he noticed Lukas stepping away, moving back over to the electric kettle and flicking it on.

“Not a problem.” Lukas said, reaching into one of the cupboards and pulling down one of the instant coffee tins. Oliver caught sight of the label,  _ french vanilla _ being somewhere on it as well.  _ Fancy boy needs his fancy coffee, _ Oliver snorted at the thought as it crossed his mind, then cleared his throat realizing that the Captain definitely heard the mock laugh. “Something funny?”

“No, don’t think so. Just relieved to get this bread done,” Oliver jutted a chin at the dough in front of him, finally in the process of shaping it for the pan.

“Hm. Have you… been helping out down here a lot?” Lukas had a tone that implied he was attempting light conversation.

Oliver shrugged, “here and there. More so lately, though. Dunno if it’s because Loreto likes the company, or if it’s the extra hands they like having about, though.” He admitted, already assuming it was most definitely the latter.

Lukas only nodded, and Oliver moved to the other side of the kitchen to retrieve the last empty bread pan, carrying the dough in his hands so he could plop it in immediately. By the time he made it over to the stove, the timer hadn’t dinged yet, so he scooted over to the sink to rinse the excess dough and flour from his hands, wiping them dry on his own apron, rather than going through the effort of reaching for a hand towel. When he turned, Lukas was leaning against the counter, facing him but his eyes were looking elsewhere. Which was to say, Lukas was still looking at him, just not… well,  _ making eye contact _ . Until he registered that Oliver had turned around, that his eyes flickered back up to meet Oliver’s gaze. “How are you feeling, Antonio?”

Oliver frowned, then he scrunched his nose for a moment. “I- um… feeling like I’m covered in dough and flour at the moment.” He replied, moving towards the oven, feeling the Captain’s gaze following his movements. 

The oven was, of course, not too far from where Lukas was standing, so it wasn’t much of a stretch when the man leaned over slightly, cupping the side of Oliver’s face with one hand and swiping his thumb across the bridge of Oliver’s nose. “You most certainly appear to be.” he agreed, looking at the stray flour that was now rubbed off on the pad of his thumb.

“Oh, um,” Oliver wiped the back of his hand across his face, looking down to see if there might have been any more excess flour hiding on his face. Then offered a corner of his apron to Lukas, “you can just wipe that off here if you want. Lord knows it’s already covered in flour anyways.” 

Lukas plucked the corner of the apron from his fingers, leaving a small streak of flour on the red fabric, before he tugged at it, Oliver jutting forward half a step, and then he said, “but flour aside, how are you feeling?” His hand let go of the apron to press against Oliver's side, just above his hip, and Oliver's back straightened at the pressure against his side.

“Captain, it’s 7 o’clock in the  _ morning _ .” Oliver pointed out.

He lifted the wrist on his right hand, stretching so his sleeves slid back for him to check the time on his wristwatch. “7:22 to be exact,” he said. Then he eyed Oliver again, clearing looking for either  _ yes _ , or a  _ no _ . But he got the feeling that Lukas wouldn’t be fussed about getting either answer.

Oliver had to look away, glancing at the timer before shrugging a shoulder. “I’ve got a few more loaves that need to be finished up, but… once those are in the oven, I mean, Loreto can more than handle the rest. He just ain’t the best at kneading them proper, but, y’know  _ after  _ that…” 

“After that?”

“Yes.” Oliver turned his head when he heard the timer ding, then pulled away, taking the oven mitts from the countertop and slipped them on before popping open the oven to take the loaves out. The wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread filled the room as he lined them one by one on the wire rack. “If later works for you too, of course.” He added, sliding the next loaf into the oven and closing the door. He reset the timer as the Captain gave his reply.

“Later works well for me, there are a few things I need to see too; but you’re welcome to let yourself into my cabin when you’re finished here.”

Oliver frowned at the first part. “Wait, if you had things to do then— were you hoping to use me as an excuse to procrastinate doing something?”

Lukas didn’t meet his eye when he said, “no.” And he said in a way that sounded like he meant  _ yes _ . Which was oddly endearing.

“Alright, off you go then, Captain. I’ll see you later.” 

He shifted, clasping his hands behind his back and nodding shortly. “As you please.” He said before turning to leave, and Oliver rolled his eyes.

“Forgetting something?” He called out, eyeing the mug that the man had seemingly come all the way down here just to fill up.

Lukas turned back, blinking, before something seemed to click. “Oh, ah.... I see.”

Oliver arched a brow, but turned back towards the counter to take the oven mitts off. But he’d only gotten the one mitt placed on the counter when he felt an arm wrap around his lower back; and before he could turn his head he felt lips press against his temple.

"I'll be seeing you later."

Oliver bit down on his bottom lip, unsure if he should correct the Captain’s assumption, or just play along. But he'd already told the man he was not the type to suffer in silence, so he just leaned away from the man's grasp, clearing his throat. "Captain, I was talking about your mug, that you were about to leave without taking with you."

Lukas didn't say anything for a few moments, in fact he seemed statue-still, until almost mechanically turning his head to look at his mug that was still sitting on the counter. Shit could've been hilarious, but Oliver thought it probably would've made the whole ordeal worse if he started laughing at Lukas' expense. "Ah, yes. That is clearly what you meant, yes."

His pale complexion was now highlighted with pink across his cheeks, and the tips of his ears; and Oliver wasn’t sure how to feel about that. So he decided to not feel any way about it. “S’alright, just a bit of a misunderstanding, no need to make a big deal out of it.” Oliver insisted, slipping entirely free from the Captain's grasp and heading over to where the last batch of dough was rising. It had already been portioned off into three separate bowls, each covered with it’s own thin cloth while the dough had been left to rise. “Still see you later, right?”

But when he turned back around, Lukas was gone. Just…  _ poof _ . There was only a slight chill in the air that Oliver assumed had come from the man rushing out the door at lightning speed to avoid further chance of embarrassing himself. At least Lukas had remembered his mug though. This did mean that Oliver wasn’t entirely sure if they were still a go for later, but… it didn’t seem like a stretch for the answer to still be  _ yes _ . And regardless, it would still be another 3½ hours before Oliver even managed to escape from the kitchen; because it soon became a proven fact that Loreto hadn’t cared so much for the company as having someone else in the kitchen that could lighten the workload. 

All and all though, Oliver had a good time, and even learned a few new recipes that, admittedly, he was unlikely to ever attempt on his own, but still. It was nice to learn something new.

\--- --- ---

Oliver paused outside of the Captain's cabin, casting a glance down the hall first, before he lifted a hand to knock. But before his hand made contact with the door, he paused. Biting his lip, he let his hand fall. The Captain had told him to just let himself in... But then again, the way Lukas had taken off, maybe he wouldn't be in the mood now? Oliver took a step back from the door, rubbing his neck as he considered his options. There was really nothing stopping him from taking off to his own room. He could have a nice shower and then maybe turn in instead? 

There was a noise down the hall, the sound of footsteps making Oliver jump, and then instead of retreating back to his own cabin, he tried the Captain's door, and found it wasn't locked, and opened easily. Slipping into the room, Oliver closed it gently and kept his back against it. The last thing he wanted was having the crew know anything about this. Though he did have the sneaking suspicion that Tadeas more than likely already knew.

Swallowing a sigh, Oliver turned his attention to the room in front of him and froze. Sitting on a stool at the worktable was Lukas; seemingly so preoccupied with something in front of him, that he hadn't noticed Oliver coming in. Oliver briefly entertained the idea of slipping back out of the room as quietly as he'd come in, but as he shifted away from the door, he got a peek of what Lukas was working on. The Captain seemed to be concentrating very hard on the model of the Sahara, which seemed odd, since Oliver thought he'd already finished it.

He took a few quiet steps closer, until he was about within arms reach of the Captain. As he did, he noticed Lukas turning his head slightly, as if he was about to look over his shoulder, before he returned his focus to the model before him. Thus, Oliver felt safe in assuming that Lukas knew he was there, and since he wasn't saying anything, he probably wouldn't mind if Oliver watched him as he worked.

The models themselves looked incredible, but the actual work of it? A bit boring, honestly. And the Captain looked as though he was trying very hard to add something to the very back of the ship, careful not to disturb the little sails that were already in place. Lukas pushed up the wire-framed glasses on his face as he relaxed in his seat, pausing in his work as he considered the model, and Oliver felt now was as good a time as any to make a comment.

"Was it missing a sail?"

Lukas lifted right off his stool, knees slamming into the table and making various little bits of his work scatter about, the model rocking its place. He whirled around, not looking angry or anything, just shocked and surprised, almost to the point of fear, even. "W-- Antonio?"

Oliver took a step back, "yeah, um... sorry, I thought you heard me, um... come in, sorry."

The Captain released a long, quite shaky exhale, a hand placed against his chest. "No, no... I didn't f- I didn't hear you, no. It's alright, you... you gave me a bit of fright, is all." He admitted, adjusting his spectacles, as they seemed to have very nearly slipped right off the tip of his nose.

"Right, yeah, I can see that." Oliver was biting his lip again, unsure of what else to say. "You gonna be alright, Captain?"

The corner of Lukas' mouth turned up into a smile as he nodded. "I believe I shall survive, yes."

"Okay, that's good." Oliver tentatively reached out a hand and placed it against the Captain's shoulder, giving him a small squeeze, that Oliver hoped would be... reassuring, maybe? "God, you look like you've never had anyone sneak up on you before."

"Ah, well... I haven't, no. It's... It's rather exhilarating, not sure why so many people complain about it."

Oliver squinted at him, "you're a bit weird, ain't you?" 

"So I've heard, yes." Lukas sighed, looking down, and seemed to be distracted by the placement of Oliver's hand. Oliver assumed that the contact was probably bothering the Captain, so he went to pull his hand back, yet as he did, Lukas caught his hand.

Oliver tensed, frowning as he asked, "Something wrong?"

"No," Lukas shook his head, inspecting Oliver's hand. "Quite the opposite, actually, come over here." And without waiting for Oliver to give any indication that he knew what was happening, Lukas pulled him closer towards the worktable. Oliver felt something being put in his hand as Lukas passed his arm over his head, and held it towards the opening of the bottle.

"Sorry, um, what--"

"She's missing something-- not a sail, just a few ropes, near the back. Unfortunately I don't have slender enough fingers to reach, even with my tools, but... well, that's where you come in." Lukas cut him off, guiding Oliver hand like an extension of his own.

He leaned against Lukas' back, looking over the Captain's shoulder to try and get a better view of whatever it was Lukas needed his help with, but... while the models themselves were very interesting, actually watching the work that was put into them, well... It was a lot like watching paint dry. Which wasn't all that surprising, really. Oliver just did not have the patience for such a hobby. Rather than continuing to try and keep an eye on what was going on, Oliver pressed his face down on Lukas' shoulder, closing his eyes, and just... hung out, basically.

"You know, normally when I guy asks me to put my fingers in his bottle, it's a bit more exciting than this." He finally commented, after what felt like hours, but had probably only been a few minutes.

Lukas shifted, head turning slightly, "what exactly does that mean?" 

Oliver swallowed a chuckle, leaning his head against Lukas'. "Nothing, carry on, love." He sighed, fighting the urge to yawn a moment later.

All and all, it couldn't have been more than a half hour of standing before Lukas no longer needed Oliver's assistance, and rather anticlimactically, released his hold on Oliver's hand, before taking over. Which was more amusing than anything else. But rather than taking this chance to putter off, Oliver leaned against the man's back, loosely draping his arms around Lukas' shoulders and leaning his head against Lukas' again. "Almost finished up, then?"

"Just about, though you're welcome to move around, of course. I understand this can't be the most riveting thing to watch."

Well, it was nice to know that Lukas was aware of that little fact. "S' fine. Besides, things are going to get more exciting once you're finished with this, yeah?" Oliver leaned over his shoulder a bit more before placing a small peck against his temple.

Lukas had just been in the process of picking up a new tool when he paused, looking at the model with a now blank expression, before he spoke. "Well... I suppose, the only additions left are purely... aesthetic based, so... I do believe they aren't of any major priority at the moment."

"You sure?" He asked, just to be nice. But when Lukas turned his head, settling those piercing blue eyes on him, it was clear the Captain had more than already made up his mind. But whatever else Oliver might've wanted to say was forgotten when he held Lukas' gaze, taking in every detail and the depth of his eye colour. " _ Damn _ ." He muttered, aloud, and not quietly enough. And given that they weren't exactly a room apart, the Captain absolutely heard him, his head tilting as his brow furrowed.

"Pardon?"

"Hm? Nothing, no." Oliver pulled back, taking a few steps away from Lukas altogether. 

Lukas was still peering at him curiously though, "Antonio, do you have something to say?"

"Nope, no. No, um... you just-- no." Oliver bit the tip of his tongue, crossing his arms and now keeping his gaze focused on the floor around his feet. 

But out of the corner of his eye, he could still catch an amused look on Lukas' face, who apparently wasn't bothered by Oliver suddenly giving him the cold shoulder. "I think you do." And as Lukas slowly stood up from his stool, he even put his hands on his hips. "Out with it, Mr. Blake."

Oliver's nose wrinkled, now feeling that this whole thing was getting a bit too much of a build-up, so if he  _ did  _ say anything, it would just sound stupid. He just thought the Captain had nice eyes! Was that a crime? No. But on top of that, now he was feeling spiteful, and likely his embarrassment was becoming noticeable as well. So picked his next words very carefully, taking up a bit of a smug expression. " _ Ihre Augen sind so schön wie ablenken _ ." He finally said, then added, on the off chance the Captain might understand him, " _ Es ist irgendwie nervig _ ." 

Judging by the way Lukas was blinking at him, he did not, in fact, understand at all. Interesting detail Oliver would save for later, just in case. “Pardon?” 

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, I have a strict no-repeat policy when it comes to these sorts of things.”

“I- I’m sorry, but what ‘sorts of things’ would that have been, exactly?” And when Oliver didn’t respond, Lukas very nearly pouted. “Fine. No need to repeat yourself, but… am I to assume you were insulting me, or… was that a compliment?”

“It was not an insult,” he paused, “well...”

Lukas almost seemed to accept that, before he just squinted at Oliver, clearly doing some sort of mental back flips to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. Finally, he drew in a long breath before exhaling, taking off his glasses, folding them, and placing them on his work table. “Right, we'll just… put a pin in that, I suppose." He turned back to face Oliver with a calm expression. "How are you feeling, again?”

Oliver considered the question, then really considered how he was feeling. “Well, not to be right out the gate with it, but, uh… I kind of feel like taking the lead tonight.”

"Very well. I suppose it's only fair, I can't always be the one in control, of course."

Oliver was honestly a bit surprised to hear Lukas say that. He half expected to be shot down. "Great. So..." Oliver moved back over towards him, placing his hands against Lukas' hips, and drawing him in close. “Clothes off, then. And find a place to get comfy.”


	7. V. Land Locked Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tundra reaches her first stop in this journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

The Tundra was nearing Her first stop in Her voyage; and would likely be docked before nightfall. Although, Peter’s mind was currently focused on nothing of the sort, as he had Antonio pressed against the only wall in his cabin that didn’t have some sort of shelving attached to it. Antonio’s arms were raised above his head, Peter pinning him by his wrists, with his other hand supporting his lower back as he railed into him with steady thrusts. 

Antonio had been showing significantly less reserve in keeping his noise levels down as of late, head tilted back as he made all sorts of lewd sounds. And Peter for his part took that as a reason to up the tempo, his thrusts becoming less rhythmic for the sake of speed, feeling the warm tension beginning to unspool in his abdomen as Antonio clenched around him, letting out another soft cry as he climaxed; and Peter doing the very same not long after, pressing his face into the crook of Antonio's neck as he released his own sounds of pleasure, letting go of Antonio's wrists to hold him steady. He rocked his hips a few more times, feeling Antonio shuddering around him as he finally came to a stop, the man's legs still firmly hitched around Peter's waist and his arms holding a loose grip on Peter's shoulders now. 

Peter rubbed his face against the soft flesh of Antonio's neck, the man's breath hitching when Peter nipped at him. It did briefly skirt across Peter's mind that he might be going about things with a bit too much zeal; as apparently Antonio's appetite for sex seemed significantly lower than his own, and after each encounter, it seemed to leave Antonio entirely incapable of doing much more than sleeping for a good few hours. 

But that was fine, Peter had concluded, pulling back before shifting to hold Antonio against him again, the man not even bothering to loosen the grip his legs had around Peter as he carried Antonio over to the bed, gently letting him fall back onto it. Antonio didn't do much more than hum his appreciation, immediately rolling over onto his stomach and wrapping his arms around the closest pillow and dozing.

Peter couldn't help letting his fingertips grace along the curve of Antonio's back, appreciating the shiver that ran up the man's spine perhaps a little more than what was good for him. He was a beautiful sight, but Peter wasn't the type to ever voice such a thought, no matter how true it was.

He turned a moment later, heading off to the ensuite bathroom, turning the shower on and going about the usual cleanup. 

When Peter returned, towel drying the damp from his hair, he half expected to find Antonio gone, but the man was still lying in Peter's bed, and seemed not to have moved at all from where Peter had left him. That was fine, Peter was certain that if he went out for a few loops around the ship, when he returned, he'd find his cabin empty again. 

That was one thing about Antonio that had Peter rather taken by him. He never questioned or seemed bothered by any sort of distance that came after they were finished. If anything, Peter was fairly certain that if he did decide to stay in the aftermath, it would make Antonio uncomfortable. But it wasn't like he'd ever actually bothered to see if such a thing were true.

Peter tilted his head in thought, pulling the towel away and draping it over the end of the bed before deciding, maybe he would see what sort of reaction Antonio might have. Antonio had already taken to lying on the farside of the bed, face buried in the pillows, and his right side pressed up against the wall; which, personally, Peter figured must be rather cold. But Antonio was weird, so he wasn't going to bother worrying about it. But with what could be called his side of the bed still remaining empty, he had no troubles pulling the covers back and sliding beneath them, laying his head back on the singular pillow that Antonio hadn't sequestered and folding his hands over his chest as he sank into the soft feather mattress. 

After a few moments of listening to Antonio's steady breathing, he turned his head, looking over at the man lying next to him. His eye were closed, and his hair was an honest mess, but the way the coily curls spilled out from his head and framed his face was an endearing look, and Peter couldn't help but reach a hand out to brush a few of those curls away, trying to tuck them behind Antonio's ear, only to have them sprung back into place; and if anything, covering more of Antonio's face now. He tried again, but to no avail; and by now a frown had appeared across the resting man's face, and after a third try from Peter, he blinked his eyes open slowly.

"Wassit?" He mumbled, squinting over at Peter with a sour expression.

"Sorry, I was trying to tuck your hair back a bit."

"Why?" Antonio yawned a second later, running a hand expertly through his own curls.

"So I could look at your face." Peter reached out, running his knuckles gently along Antonio's jawline.

Antonio turned his head away from the gesture, brow furrowing. "Don't." Antonio mumbled, now shifting his entire position so his back was to Peter; then he pulled the covers up over his shoulder and seemed to doze off again.

Peter felt something move in his chest, but he wasn't quite sure what it was, or why. He gave the covers a small tug, and since Antonio still seemed to have a hold on them, it only managed to move him slightly, before he pulled back. 

"Stop it." He mumbled, but there was an inflection to his words that made Peter think he was only trying to sound upset.

"Stop what?" He asked in a very serious tone, deciding that he was going about things the wrong way, given that they were both under the same covers, and if he really wanted to agitate the other man, he need only slide over more, wrapping his arms around Antonio beneath the covers and pulling the man's back flush against his chest. So that was exactly what he did.

Antonio wiggled a bit, but seemed to have gotten himself wrapped up under the covers in a way that made it even more difficult for him to fight back. He seemed to be trying to say something, but couldn't decide what words were more important, so all Peter heard were vague noises that sounded like they could have been words with a bit more effort. " _ You _ . What are you doing?" He finally managed to say.

Peter had to wonder the same thing, actually. He wasn’t really sure what his goal was now that he had Antonio wrapped up in his arms, and his face was pressed into the man’s hair, feeling the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest as he huffed out each aggravated breath. “I’m having a well deserved rest after expending quite a bit of energy.”

Antonio grumbled something, before speaking up, “fair enough; but if this is your way of trying to get me to leave, you could’ve just, I don’t know, asked? Christ, you’re too warm, you’re gonna make me all clammy.”

“Stop being so cold, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.” Peter plucked at the covers from beneath, managing to get them to roll down enough that he could press his cheek against Antonio’s shoulder, unsurprised to find the skin cold against his face.

Antonio wiggled again, but with Peter at his back, and the wall in front of them, there wasn’t anywhere really for him to go; unless he was desperate enough to try and slip out from below. “You’re a wretched, terrible man, you know that?”

Peter snorted, “you’d have me do all that work and then not even allow me the comfort of sleeping in my own bed? I’m afraid your argument is invalid, Mr. Blake.”

Antonio scoffed, shifting again, bumping his shoulder against Peter's face so he had to move back to avoid getting hit again. "Like I said, if you want me to leave, I can, but you've got to let me go first."

"Hm. No, this is fine, just like this. I could go for a nice nap now, and I've heard it said that my grip is near impossible to free oneself from once I've fallen asleep, so I do hope you're comfortable."

"I am anything  _ but  _ comfortable, Peter, so if you could just--"

"How unfortunate then, as I seem to be-" be Peter paused to let out a superfluous yawn, "-drifting off already."

"Peter, that isn't funny. Peter? Peter, you are not asleep,  _ Peter _ ."

He couldn't stop the smirk from spreading across his face he nestled his chin against Antonio's shoulder again, letting out a sleepy sigh and going still, emulating the calm of one who had just fallen asleep.

Antonio grumbled a string of words again, but they certainly weren't English, so he decided to pay them no mind. "Fine! Fine, that's just...  _ fine _ ." Peter had to put some effort into keeping his expression as neutral as the rest of him as he felt Antonio shifting his arms, apparently in the process of rolling over, until Peter could only assume Antonio was now laying face to face with him. Pretending to shift in his sleep, he tightened his hold on the other man, his hands finding purchase along Antonio's back as he pulled the man closer, feeling Antonio's cold forehead tucked against his collarbone now. Which actually felt rather nice. Peter spent so much of his time overheating that having someone as cold as Antonio pressed against him felt as good as a cold breeze in the middle of summer.

It certainly wasn’t something he was about to get used to, though; but he was deserving of this one moment of indulgence, surely.

Antonio let out a long, tired sigh, no longer struggling against Peter, but seemed to find some contentment in the embrace, one of his arms shifted to loop under Peter’s, and hand splaying against his side. It wouldn’t be long before Peter no longer had to pretend to sleep, because by then he quite literally was unconscious.

\--- --- ---

Peter woke a few hours later, briefly surprised that Antonio was still in bed with him; though they were no longer wrapped around each other as how they'd been while falling asleep. He didn't focus on this much past that, instead checking his watch, noting the time. The ship wasn't moving, he knew that, and given that it was about a quarter past 2100, he could only assume Tadeas had brought the ship into dock. No doubt most of the crew had already left from the ship; the rest would likely be waiting until morning before heading out into the city. 

Peter let his arm drop behind his head, looking up at the ceiling and letting his mind drift for a bit. He still felt tired, and it wasn't like there was anything else to do except get some more rest. He yawned, rubbing a hand down his face and blinking slowly as he tried to make up his mind; whether he would stay and sleep, or force himself up. That was when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. A soft flicker, like a spark coming off a flame, before going out.

Frowning, he shifted, eyeing the man laying beside him. But Antonio seemed to be entirely asleep and... well, it took Peter a moment, but it honestly didn't look like he was moving at all. Antonio was laying on his back, covers pulled up over his chest. Peter reached out, placing a hand over him, and after a few moments, he could feel the slightest rise and fall of Antonio's chest. So, clearly there was nothing to worry about— until he noticed that flicker again, and this time his eye caught sight of the cause. The side of Antonio's neck, where a part of the mark was, lit up for all of a second, before the soft glow faded.

That was... odd. Peter shifted again, propping himself up on an elbow, and while he was moving, the covers slipped down, and for a moment, all he saw was red-- where the mark was thickest across Antonio's chest lighting up and pulsating the glow down across the rest of the mark. Curious, Peter placed a hand on the point of origin, and sure enough, with each beat of Antonio's heart, a spark of red would flow out across the mark, and then fade before the next beat came. It was as fascinating as it was concerning.

"Antonio?" Peter spoke in a low tone, moving his hand from the man's chest to brush the hair out of Antonio's face, but his features were entirely calm, undisturbed; save for the slight movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids. Peter recalled distantly that this was common for someone in REM state. But what on earth could Antonio be dreaming about that had his mark lighting up like this? Peter didn't know. And not knowing made him even less sure of what his course of action ought to be. 

It was then that he noticed something else. The room was a few degrees colder than usual, and the air had a sort of  _ stale  _ taste to it. But, as Peter put his hand against the man's chest again, Antonio was  _ warm _ . Not overheating or anything, but definitely not cold. Unsure of what else to do, Peter eventually sighed, laying back down against the bed, and deciding to do nothing, but simply wait the whole thing out. 

Roughly an hour would pass before anything changed. It happened abruptly, as it were, Peter still had his hand against Antonio's chest, could feel the beat of his heart, and thereby noticed when the next beat didn't come. The steady rise and fall of his chest was no longer happening either, and as Peter looked over at him, he noticed how the mark seemed caught in a glowing stasis, swirling out across Antonio's body, before circling back around, flowing like the rise and fall of the tides. As fascinating a view this was, Peter couldn't exactly ignore the fact that Antonio's heart wasn't beating, and that he wasn't breathing; but right as he started to shift, to get back up, the glow from the mark receded, and he could feel the steady beating of Antonio's heart underneath his palm. 

Antonio's chest shuddered as he drew in a sharp breath, eyes opening wide for all of a second before, they fluttered closed, and he lifted a hand to his face. Peter remained still, allowing himself to sink back against the bed and watch carefully through nearly closed eyes. Antonio sighed, letting out a soft, single, " _ fuck _ ." Before letting his hand drop to his chest, and then shocked himself when he finally noticed that Peter's arm was laid across him. He seemed so taken aback by this that he just stared for a moment with a look of perplexity, before sighing to himself again and gently lifting Peter's arm and pushing it away.

Peter didn't know how to feel about this, but allowed himself to be moved. That was when things got slightly precarious, as Antonio rolled over to face him, and all Peter could do was close his eyes if he wanted to keep up his farce. For a few seconds there was nothing, and all Peter could focus on was the sound of his own breathing, agonizing over whether or not it was too fast, or too slow; when he felt cold fingertips against the side of his face, tracing across his jawline.

"You awake?" Antonio whispered, and Peter did not reply. Antonio caressed his face a moment longer before letting out yet another sigh. "Good."

Peter could feel the bed shifting and when he cautioned a peek; he could make out the dark silhouette of Antonio sitting up in bed, head in his hands as he seemed quite focused on his breathing. Peter was beginning to think this might all be just a touch dramatic; nonetheless, he swallowed a sigh, rolling over in the bed and specifically making sure to nudge Antonio with one of his legs.

Antonio tensed at the touch, head snapping up and around to peer down at Peter, who offered a short yawn as though he were only just rousing. "Sorry, hope I didn't wake you," Antonio spoke softly, and there was just a hint of something else in his voice, but Peter couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"Not to worry, I normally wake around..." Peter lifted his watch idly, squinting at the face of it, "the stupendous hour of... midnight." It was really only a quarter too, but that hardly seemed relevant. "What has you awake?"

Antonio shifted, as if recoiling from the question, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck as a means of distraction. "Dunno, just couldn't sleep, I guess." He essentially mumbled.

Peter considered asking why, but that seemed a bit too on the nose, so instead his pushed himself up, draping himself against Antonio's side and linking his arms around the man's shoulders before saying, "I imagine it would be much easier to sleep if you were laying down."

Even in the sparse lighting that found its way in through the cabin window above the bed, Peter couldn't miss the way Antonio's face pinched. "Yeah, probably." Was his lacklustre response.

Thus, Peter decided that words were pointless, and proceeded to gently tug against Antonio, slowly pulling him back down towards the bed, and then positioning himself to lay his head against Antonio's chest. Antonio still seemed awfully tensed, but he sighed in a tone of mock resignation, and took to running his fingers through Peter's hair. After a few moments, Peter asked, "Better?"

"Sure." Came the stiff response.

After some deliberation, Peter asked, "Something you want to talk about?"

"No."

And of course the last thing Peter wanted to do was pry. Quite frankly, most of the concern he'd been feeling had solely been for the wellbeing of his ship. After all, if Antonio was experiencing some sort of metamorphosis at the behest of the Entity that marked him, it likely wouldn't bode well from the Tundra. But all things loosely concerned, now that Antonio was awake, nothing actually appeared that out of sorts. Antonio was back to a temperature that Peter would consider normal for him, his mark was no longer glowing, and he had a regular heartbeat. Obviously nothing was truly amiss, and therefore, there was no reason to worry. "As you please," Peter said casually, letting out a sleepy sigh that wasn't quite a yawn.

Antonio's hand still in his hair for a moment, before the man finally seemed to relax, tension leaking out from him as he went soft beneath Peter. "Thanks." He mumbled, and Peter wasn't sure what for.

There was a stillness to the room after that, and Peter could feel himself beginning to doze off right around when Antonio started to shift beneath him. "What is it?" Peter mumbled, not even bothering to open his eyes, and just wanting to appreciate the coolness of Antonio's skin against his forehead for just a moment longer.

"I... I need to use the loo," Antonio admitted somewhat reluctantly, and really giving Peter no choice but to move after that.

As Antonio freed himself from the bed, Peter called out in half-hearted, and teasing manner, "hurry back." To which Antonio didn't even humour him with an answer.

Peter wasn't exactly in the business of waiting for people though, and was even less inclined when he heard the bathroom fan whirring on, and the sound of the shower following shortly after. Instead, he rolled onto his side, facing the wall, and drifted back to sleep.

When he found himself blinking awake again, presumably not long after dozing off, he assumed Antonio had just come back to the bed, and that had roused him; but no. No, he was alone, and he could still hear the fan whirring in the bathroom. But he was certain that there was just the smallest sound that had pricked his ears and woken him. Perhaps Antonio had dropped something? Or worse case, slipped getting out of the shower.

But as Peter pushed himself up, legs hanging over the side of the bed, he realized that, other than that damn fan, there was no other noise inside the cabin. Curious, Peter got up to investigate, and was confused to find the bathroom empty, with even the light turned off. Flicking it on, sure enough Antonio wasn't there. Then, before turning the light back off, he cast his gaze back out into the rest of the cabin, and thanks to the light coming from the bathroom he was able to clearly see that the passenger's clothes and slippers had also vanished. Turning off the light, and the fan, it was clear now, what had happened. No doubt the door had shut just a little too loudly when Antonio was leaving, and that was what had woken him.

An interest trick, though. Leaving the fan on for background noise so Peter wouldn't hear Antonio collecting his things before making his exit. Peter would have to remember that one.

\--- --- ---

It was early the next morning when Peter left his cabin to go down to the main deck. It wasn’t uncommon for the crew to take off from the ship when they made port; especially when he knew Tadeas had already spread the word that they would likely be shore-side for at least a day or two while waiting for the right permits to go through the canal. He'd felt it throughout most of the early morning, as the various presences that made up the background noise of the Tundra had slowly filtered away from the ship, joining the thrum of people within the city; and by this time the ship was near empty of anyone at all; and this was always when Peter left his cabin to make his own journey towards the city. One could say he was avoiding the crowd, perhaps.

He wasn't surprised to find Antonio standing at the bow of the ship, but he was curious to see that Antonio had no interest in the dock, or the occasional passerby, but seemed to have his gaze firmly fixed on the open waters, just beyond the port. Perhaps Antonio had grown somewhat attached to the Atlantic.

Peter had just stepped onto the dock, thinking of calling out to the other man to join him for a stroll through the city, when he felt a buzzing in his pocket. Frowning, he reached down and pulled out his cellular, surprised when  _ Incoming call from: Elias _ scrolled across the small front screen.

Swallowing his words, he walked a few steps further from the ship, flipping open his phone and holding it against his ear. "What do you want?"

There was a pause on the other end, and that only left Peter confused; but when whoever had called him finally spoke, he found himself twice as confused.  _ "Peter? Darling, is that you?" _

Peter held the phone away from his ear, checking the caller ID again, before responding. "Apate? Why are  _ you _ calling me? And from Elias' phone?"

_ "Oh is that whose phone this is? Some alarm thingy started going off saying "call x number" and I figured, I wasn't doing anything else." _

Peter could feel a headache forming around his temples as he scratched at the hair on his face with his spare hand. "Well do you know what Elias wants, then? Surprised he even left you alone with his phone, to be perfectly honest."

_ "Oh, I don't imagine he did it on purpose. Something came up at work I think, and you know how Els is, all work, hardly any play."  _

Peter let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his shoulders, and looking around for some excuse to hang up. But when he looked up to the Tundra's deck, Antonio seemed distracted, talking with Tadeas; and Peter wouldn't want to interrupt. "Well, he's entirely your problem now, so I don't care to know the finer details."

Apate hummed softly for a moment. _ "Yes, I suppose he is. Honestly, not sure what I was thinking; you two have always been oh so cute together, but... well, I really don't mind being a home-wrecker, to be honest." _

"There would've had to have been a home to wreck for that title to have any meaning. And frankly, I was happy to be rid of him."

Apate laughed, and it was a sound similar to wind chimes, but if those wind chimes were discordant notes that were all ill-suited to be played next to one another.  _ "I'd say it's your loss, but it seems if anyone is losing here, it's me. Els can be such a handful when he wants to be, hm?" _

"Yes, well, I'm actually rather busy at the moment, so if relationship advice is what you seek, call someone else; I'm sure Elias' phone must be full of other numbers. In fact, you live for deceit, why don't you go through his contacts, delete a few, swap some names around-- I'm sure you'd enjoy that."

_ "You know what, yes, I think I would enjoy doing that quite a bit, but- ah, there is one problem with your little plan. While I'm sure it would entertain me for at least a few minutes, it would be a complete waste of time. Elias would know before he even got his phone back into his little hands again." _

Peter actually knew very well that that would likely be the case; he'd actually just been hoping Apate would be too taken by the idea of messing with Elias to notice the result would be fruitless. "Yes, how terribly silly of me. Oh, dear, oh no. Goodbye, Apate." Peter let his tone be as openly sarcastic as he was capable of as he moved the phone away from his face to snap it closed. 

But he wasn't quite fast enough in the action, because he still heard Apate from the other end, saying,  _ "oh, don't you dare hang up on-- oh, oh look, it's Elias, he just got in, well, speak of the devil as they say--" _ Apate could be heard calling out for Elias, but after that, the conversation that proceeded (presumably between the two) was muffled at best, and Peter was left with enough time wonder if he ought to just cut his losses and hang up anyways.

It wasn't long before someone was speaking into the phone again, Elias' voice filtering through with it's usual smug tone.  _ "Peter? Terribly sorry about all that; it certainly wasn't my intention to leave my phone alone with--" _

"Save your breath, Elias. What do you want?"

There was a moment's pause, before Elias could be heard clearing his throat.  _ "I see, not in the best of moods, are we? Hopefully nothing amiss has happened while you were crossing the Atlantic; I presume the Tundra is still one piece, yes?" _

There was really only one good thing about talking through a device, and that was that there was nothing stopping from rolling his eyes. And standing this close to the Tundra, Peter was certain Elias wouldn't be able to see him doing so. "Would you mind getting to the point? According to Apate you even set an alarm, so if I had to guess, it must be something you consider important." _ But not nearly as important as your precious institute. _

_ "I... Well, I see you're in no mood to catch up then, a pity. I do always love to hear how things are going aboard the ship, and I do have some news of my own." _ Elias had that tone that meant he was trying to stall for dramatic affect; but Peter really wasn't in the mood. Standing as he was, he could see just out of the corner of his eye, Antonio was no longer talking with Tadeas and had instead come to stand at the side of the ship. When he noticed Peter standing there, his eyes lit up and he gave a small wave, but upon noticing Peter had a phone held up to his ear he bit his lip, putting a finger to his lips to signal he wouldn’t interrupt. 

Peter couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. The smile disappeared immediately as he returned his attention to his conversation with Elias. “To the first, that’s a complete lie, you should be ashamed of yourself; and to the second, I don’t care.”

Elias scoffed lightly,  _ “Peter, you should really know by now that I do not lie-” _

“-you merely stretch the definition of the truth.” Peter cut him off. “Which is to say, you love hearing about the Tundra  _ through your little statements _ , otherwise you’re asleep before I can even--”

_ “Fine, yes, hearing you drone on about the ship getting a new paint job, or having a leak in the deck is a recipe for myself getting some impromptu rest. You’re an absolute bore to listen to, is that what you’d like me to say?” _

Peter bristled at that, but if he actually wanted to get to the root of the problem, he needed to just swallow his pride. Clearly he’d been spending too much time with someone who actually seemed to appreciate a good monologue about the Tundra. “Just tell me what you want, Elias.”

Elias let out a soft sigh, as though he wasn't done knocking Peter down a few more pegs, but that he'd surely live if they changed topics.  _ "If that's all you care to hear about, then alright." _ Elias paused as if there were any chance at all that Peter might change his mind. He wouldn't; but Elias loved his theatrics.  _ "I see. So, the reason for my calling is quite simple. A may have a... wager of sorts. That is if you'd be interested in such a thing, of course." _

Peter tensed. He did always love a good bet. But he'd need more than just the hint of one before he would actually throw his lot in. "Is that so?" Peter started, knowing better than to allow himself to sound too excited at the prospect. Elias did always love to point out what a  _ 'creature of habit' _ he was. 

_ "Interested in hearing more, are we?" _

The answer was always 'yes', but Peter didn't quite get the chance to even say that. He felt something, light and almost ticklish against the back of his hand, moving slowly down towards his pinky. It took up enough of his attention that he pulled the phone away from his ear just a bit, turning his palm up, just in time to catch the sight of thin spider legs walking along the side of his hand, crawling around towards his palm. There wasn't really any thought after that, merely an impulse. On the other end of the line he heard Elias calling his name, sounding ever so slightly smug, before Peter jerked his hand.

Really, he'd only meant to shake the spider free, but just as his wrist snapped forward, his fingers loosened around his cellular; and it, along with the large brown spider, went soaring across the dock. But whereas the spider landed with some grace, scuttling off down the pier without a care in the world; his phone skipped across the smooth surface before sliding clear off the other side. A soft  _ splash  _ could be heard when it landed in the water below, and it took Peter a good few moments to actually conceptualize what had just happened. His gaze shifted to look down at his now empty hand, blinking as if he couldn't believe that his phone wasn't there anymore.

From the ship, he could hear the sound of a stifled laugh, his eyes shifting, landing on Antonio who was still standing on deck with a hand pressed over his mouth. The moment he realized Peter was looking back, he turned his entire body away, as if that would somehow make Peter any less aware that the Tundra's passenger had just witnessed him throwing his phone off the dock. And while, yes,  _ technically _ , that had not been his intention, it was still more-or-less what had just happened.

Peter could feel heat spreading across his cheeks as he shrugged his hands into the pockets of his coat, looking at his feet for a moment, before walking stiffly back towards the ship. He was halfway up the brow of the ship when Antonio finally turned back around, a forced look of surprise on his face.

"Oh, hello, Captain. Still about, then? Thought you'd gone off into the city with the rest of them." 

Peter wanted to take some miniscule amount of comfort in Antonio's attempts at pretending what had just happened hadn't actually just happened. But he knew. And he knew that Antonio likely knew that he knew. It was all terribly complicated and making his head hurt. "Antonio, it's fine. I'm sure my pride can survive from this." 

Antonio nodded slowly, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he wrapped his arms over his chest. “S’alright. I think we’ve all had conversations that make us want to pitch our phones into the drink. The again, most of us don’t because dealing with the consequence of doin’ so is usually worse.”

Peter blinked slowly at that. He hadn’t considered that. “Yes, of course… and the consequence usually being?” Peter may have lost a phone here and there, but never while actually in the middle of a conversation. Perhaps the rules were different for such a case.

Antonio arched a brow, before shrugging a shoulder. “I mean, well, there’s the hassle of getting a new phone.” 

Peter relaxed a bit. “Oh, that’s hardly a problem. Frankly, I think I’m better off without the thing.”

“Right, yeah… um, but then there’s usually how the person you were talking to might react? I mean, most people don’t really like getting hung up on; but then hearing, well, a  _ splash _ before the line disconnects tends to go even less well.”

Peter considered that point, but found himself even less bothered by the whole ordeal now. “Thank you, Antonio; now that you’ve put things into a new perspective, I’m feeling much better, I think.”

Antonio's nose wrinkled as he let out a breathy laugh. Clearly making Peter feel better hadn't been his intention, but he still seemed pleased that it had helped. Peter could appreciate that. "You're welcome?"

Peter tilted his head, considering something for only a moment, before speaking. "Well, it seems my day has been freed up, and I've even managed to get rid of the one thing that might have changed that, so..." 

His companion's stance shifted, arms loosening from where they were tucked around himself, and a single brow arching slightly. "So...?"

He smiled as he continued, but with a casual tone so as not to make Antonio think this might've been some sort of plan. After all, Peter rarely made plans of any sort; since they required far too much forethought. "Would you care to come with me into the city for a bite to eat? I know a few good places, and since you mentioned this would be your first time in Colón, I assume you'd like to have a look around the place as well?"

Peter didn't miss the way Antonio's face seemed to fall, even though the man was clearly trying to hide it, but as all of what Peter had offered settled in, Antonio seemed to recoil into himself, expression becoming somewhat distant as he even seemed to be standing back more. "O-Oh, um... I..." Antonio hugged himself, and a second later Peter noticed one of his fingers was tapping against the opposing arm. "That really does sound great, but..."

"But?" Peter felt a small, almost imperceptible urge to reach out, as if Antonio might just fade away if he didn't. But that was a ridiculous notion, so he ignored the urge.

Antonio looked pained for a moment, as if he didn't want to admit whatever had him so apprehensive. Eventually he let out a sigh. "I haven't really been feeling all that great, you know? I dunno, ever since the ship actually stopped, I've been... just feeling a bit under the weather. I mean, I was all worried about getting seasick when I came aboard, but now the ship's stopped, I'm... just a bit woozy, you know?"

Peter's brow furrowed, and he found himself considering what had happened last night, and he wondered if that might be playing a role in Antonio's discomfort. But as far as Antonio was concerned, Peter didn't know anything about that, and Peter didn't feel right about admitting that he'd spent half the night watching Antonio sleep either. "Perhaps you've gotten too used to the constant swaying of the ship?" He suggested half-heartedly.

"Yeah, maybe... I dunno. I think I'll just try to get some rest, and see how I'm feeling later?" Nothing about Antonio's tone actually implied that he expected to be feeling better later; or even at all. But he certainly looked like he could use a rest.

"Of course; and you're welcome to stay in my cabin, as well. There's the kettle, and I may have some tea in the cabinet underneath. I've heard tea can be relaxing."

Antonio let out a humoured sigh, already moving back towards the House, but clearly wasn't going to actually leave until he knew Peter had said everything he wished to say. "Weird, I think I've heard that one before too."

Peter wasn't sure what else there was to say, and very nearly said his goodbyes before a thought crossed his mind. "Perhaps I could bring you back something? I don’t plan for us to be in Colón for long, so perhaps a souvenir, just in case you aren't feeling better before we leave?"

Antonio's face pinched. "No, I... it's fine, you really don't have to get me anything."

But Peter was actually rather taken with the idea, and shook his head. "It'll be no trouble at all; in fact, I insist. You may not want to see the city, but you can at least let a piece of the city see you."

He had a defeated expression on his face when he sighed again. "You're weird, Peter." And then he turned and walked back towards the House. His apparent inability to say goodbye still remained to be a somewhat endearing quality to Peter. 

Of course, now that Antonio had left him standing there on his lonesome, he really had no reason to remain on deck, and after taking a moment to peer out over the docks, he took a deep breath and let the familiar feeling of complete anonymity overtake him before setting off into the city.

It would be around noon before he’d find himself making his way back towards the Tundra; only stopping for a moment while passing by a vendor; one of their wares standing out to him. Peter paused for a moment, allowing himself to be seen as he stepped closer to the item that had caught his eye. Lain out for easy viewing was what appeared to be a rather large scarf of some sort. It looked to be a decent material, and the design appeared to become more and more intricate the longer he looked at it. And though from its center point, it seemed to be an entirely symmetrical pattern of a large tree whose roots were twisting out from beneath and around, overlapping with one another and creating a circular layout; the shaping of the tree’s trunk and it’s roots all seemed to have an organic quality to them, that Peter could even imagine seeing such a tree somewhere despite Mother Nature not being known for having much symmetry. But really, it was the colour of the scarf itself that had caught his eye. A nice warm shade of red; almost amber in colour, actually.

He’d asked the vendor how much, paid well over the set price, and took the bagged item and left before the vendor had time to actually process how much Peter had given them.  _ (Some might consider this an unusually kind gesture, but really, Peter had spent all his life with a ridiculous amount of money at his fingertips, but had never really gotten any sort of talk about how to use it. Whether that was for better or for worse, who’s to say.) _

Returning to the Tundra took barely any time at all after that, and he’d just been heading towards the ship’s House when… he noticed something, just ever so slightly,  _ off _ about the ship. There was a very specific  _ presence _ aboard the ship; and not one Peter would have expected.

To clarify, everyone had a presence aboard the Tundra, and this included the crew; although the presence of the nameless and often faceless workers were commonly nothing more than a dull thrum that hung in the air as they moved about the ship doing their work; and generally, Tadeas' presence had always been the strongest, and for years it had worked as a sort of anchor point for Peter when he'd slip into the Lonely on accident, finding himself with troubles returning to his ship. And as of late, Peter had begun to pick up on Antonio’s presence as well; though this had taken some time for Peter, as for the longest while, he hadn’t really been able to tell if the passenger even  _ had one _ . And even still, Antonio's presence was a difficult one to pinpoint… something that might've been a reason Peter had been originally so curious about the passenger.

Of course, none of this was particularly important as Peter began his ascent of the inner stairwell; because it wasn’t the presence of the crew, or Tadeas, or even Antonio that he had him feeling ever so slightly nervous. No, the presence aboard the Tundra that currently had him feeling as though he were walking along the thin ledge of a precipice was that of a certain acquaintance of his. And the only reason he was truly so keen to see ‘what was up’ was that the closer he got to this presence, the quicker he was to realize that it currently seemed to be coming from his cabin; the same place he'd told Antonio to go. And  _ that _ had him feeling very unsettled, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Explicit sexual content (it jumps right to it, sorry :/), spiders (just the one, but they're a creepy crawl-y little bastard), also Elias has a brief speaking role in this chapter.


	8. VI. Land Locked Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tundra reaches her first stop in this journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

Despite himself, Oliver found himself retreating back to Peter's cabin after narrowly avoiding getting dragged out into the city of Colón. He couldn't really even say that it was out of habit or anything. Sure, most of Oliver's... _interactions_ with the Captain happened here but... that was pretty much it. Which is why he scowled when he noticed one of his books sitting open on the coffee table in the corner. When had that even gotten there? And from there, Oliver tried to ignore everything else that was suddenly growing more apparent now. A book here, a book there, a sugar bowl next to the kettle, some of his clothes that had found their way into the room. Going into the bathroom, he even found his toothbrush which... Certainly explained why he hadn't been able to find it earlier that morning.

Oliver looked up, into the bathroom mirror, eyeing his reflection for a moment. He considered taking a shower, letting the warm water help calm his nerves, but he'd taken one in the night, so it seemed like it'd just be a waste of water. Tilting his head, he noticed something, a few stray curls against the back of his neck that had him leaning in, pulling at the strands. At first, he thought with some minor panic that he was somehow going grey, but no, the hair there was stark white instead. Was that worse? And how hadn't he noticed them before?

Whatever, they were easy enough to hide and ignore, until he started noticing more and more white strands. He wasn't exactly a spring chicken or anything, but he had to be too young for his hair to be turning white. His nose wrinkled as he played with his hair, mushing it around to try and hide the white spots. They were at port, and while Oliver had no intentions of leaving the ship, maybe if he ran into one of the crew, he could ask them to pick him up some hair dye?

Well, maybe not. That might be a bit too ridiculous. Besides... it didn't really look that bad, did it?

Oliver sighed, running a hand through his hair as he exited the bathroom and headed back into the main room. Had Peter noticed the change? And if he had, did he like it? Oliver wondered, idly pulling a curl taut before releasing it and watching as it sprang back into place. Wait, what the hell was he thinking? What did it matter what the Captain thought? It didn't, obviously. Why would it? He dropped himself down on the bed, taking a moment, before just laying back, letting his legs hang off the edge of the bed as he stared up at the ceiling.

The fact that he hadn't slept since he'd woken up in the night probably wasn't helping. When he'd fallen asleep, it had been in hopes that even if he had dreamt, the ship would still be far enough from the city that Oliver wouldn't have had to see it. But in the end, it hadn't mattered, had it? He could replay the dream like a memory, staring out over the dock from the bow of the ship, looking out at the unfamiliar city, bathed in the familiar orange glow of his dreamworld. The only saving grace, if he could even consider it as such, was that he'd woken up before Peter. The last thing Oliver wanted to find out was that he did something weird in his sleep while having one of those dreams.

He rolled over onto his side, curling up a bit and pulling one of the pillows from the head of the bed and burying his face into it. He was alone now though, wasn't he? And yeah, the dreams were horrible, and honestly the last thing he wanted to see right now was how a bunch of people within the city would pass eventually, but maybe he'd get lucky this time? Maybe he could just have a quick little nap, just a short one. Just enough rest to push him through until they passed through the canal. Oliver let out a heavy breath, letting his eyes close as he nestled his face into the pillow. It must've been from Peter's side of the bed, it smelt like his aftershave...

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he knew it wasn't enough, when the sound of a loud bang made him jolt up in the bed, heart pounding. The initial clatter was soon followed by shouting and yelling that Oliver couldn't make out, but it all sounded far enough away that it had to have come from the dock somewhere. Maybe one of the cranes had dropped a shipping crate too fast or too soon? The bang had certainly been loud enough. Oliver sat forward, sighing into his hands. Just as well, really.

Pushing himself up off the bed, he looked around the room with what had to be quite the pitiful expression. Eventually he decided that, since he clearly wasn't going to be getting any rest, maybe he could take the time to get a better look at the shelves that stretched across the back wall. Oliver started by looking at all the little ships in their bottles. He couldn’t even begin to identify most of them, but he could pick out the one that was supposed to be the Sahara, and one that seemed to be a replica of the Tundra as well. The curios that dotted the shelf ranged from small stones with detailed paintings of beaches and boats out on the water on them, and even a few acrylic blocks that had much the same sort of imagery. Though one seemed to be of a fairly large house, which looked anything but welcoming-- though Oliver couldn’t place why exactly he got that vibe from it. Looking at the books next yielded even less interest. They mostly seemed to be about nautical upkeep and ship encyclopedias; but there was one that stood out more than the others.

Oliver took down a brown leather book that looked to be handbound; it had no title, or anything on the binding that would indicate what it was about, but it was thick and had maroon coloured page-keepers poking out from the bottom of it. Opening the cover and leafing through the first few pages, he was pleased to find that it was an album of sorts. It had the usual photo sleeves for most of the pages, but a few of the pages were also a heavy sort of scrapbooking paper, with notes and explanations for a few of the photos that were present across from them. Oliver wandered over to the bed, still leafing through as he sat down, crossing his legs under him and spreading the album out across his lap.

Most of the pictures were about what he’d expected-- various polaroids of distant beaches and ships still at port; though a few seemed to be in the process of sailing out from the docks that no longer bound them. Oliver was beginning to wonder if there was anything else in the world that actually mattered to Peter aside from ships and sandy beaches. But it was a thought that came with a sort of endearing warmth. 

The further he looked through the album though, the less impersonal the pictures seemed to be. The one that stood out first was what looked to be the christening of the Tundra, which stood large and dominating behind a small group of sailors that were presumably the ship’s original crew. At the center of the group, stood a man that was obviously Peter. It was strange, the date on the photograph would have put it nearly thirty years ago, but he really didn’t look all that different. His hair was certainly darker back then, with only a few shocks of white intertwined with the mess of dark hair. But his face didn’t seem to have aged, and he obviously didn’t smile any more back then then he did now. Across from the photo sleeve was a page of scrap paper that read the year the photo had been taken, listing the names of those present, and gave a very detailed list of the Tundra’s specifications. The last part seemed to have been given a great deal more care than the rest of it, and that actually gave Oliver a bit of a chuckle.

The next picture that stood out was a few pages later, and seemed to be the most well-preserved out of the bunch. It was the side profile of what looked to be a mid-twenties Peter, standing at the bow of what had to be the Sahara, staring out over the water with a wistful expression. In this photo, his hair was the darkest, with only a few strands of white peeking out around his temples. He had a smile in this one, and that added to the softness of his expression that actually had Oliver holding his breath as he studied the photograph. At the bottom of the photo were the words _“See back_.” and a little arrow that made it clear the photo ought to be flipped around.

Oliver’s fingers twitched as he reached towards the page, but he paused for only a moment, casting a glance throughout the room to make sure Peter hadn’t snuck in while he’d been distracted. Obviously, this could be considered an invasion of privacy, but Oliver _really_ wanted to know more. Who had taken the photo, and why? And why would someone take a photo of a person, and then give that photo _to_ said-person? He wasn’t expecting to get all of these answers given the photo really wasn’t quite big enough to fit an entire explanation on the back of it.

Exhaling slowly, he slipped the photo out of its sleeve and flipped it. On the back read,

> _Peter,_
> 
> _You have to be one of the dumbest people I know, but you did save my life; and I will remember that. So given your predisposition, may we never cross paths again._
> 
> _\- Robin_

There was a date on the upper right corner as well, _Summer, ‘86_.

Oliver frowned, now having more questions then he had answers. But he decided to just let it be, slipping the photo back into its sleeve and continuing on. The next few photos were the usual beach shots, but the one after that left Oliver winded.

It… it was a _wedding_ photo. Oliver snapped the album closed, staring at the far wall for some time as he tried _not_ to process what he’d seen in the photo. Had Peter looked… happy in the photo? A soft look of contentment, maybe? And who had been the other person in the photo? Short and well dressed; and while he hadn’t really looked all that long at the photo, Oliver quite got the impression that the man might’ve had a smug expression on his face. Oh, he really wanted to open the book back up, and pour over every little detail in the photo- but _no_. No, that wouldn’t be a very good idea. No, probably best if he just, put the album back and pretended he hadn’t ever even picked it up in the first place. Yes, that was exactly what he needed to do.

He didn’t do that. He cracked the album open again, flipping through pages starting at the center in search of the photo again. Oliver skipped through a few pages, realizing that he might’ve opened the book too far back, and that the photo he was looking for was probably further ahead. That’s when he stopped, on a page that had another polaroid that looked similar to the other one he'd seen earlier, before the wedding photo. There was Peter again, but also a man standing next to him. They stood at the bow of the Sahara, and Peter had the same soft expression as the one before, but he wasn’t looking towards the camera or the water in this one, his gaze firmly on the man next to him; who was about as tall as Peter, black, and smiling openly at whoever had snapped the picture. There was something about the clothes the man wore that made Oliver think of one of those Mormons that went house to house knocking on doors in the summer. Something about the perfectly pressed white button up and accompanying black tie, probably.

Curious, as he was, Oliver pulled this one from the sleeve, flipping it over to see if there was a note on the back of this one too. But the back only read, " _Summer '86 - Pete & Addy _" in a script that was different from the other. Shrugging to himself, Oliver went to put it back, when he noticed a folded piece of paper had been in the sleeve as well, a corner of it now sticking out from the sleeve. Biting his lip, Oliver placed the photo carefully in the crease of the album, and pulled the note out, placing the album down on the bed next to him before folding the paper open. 

It was a letter, and read as follows.

> _Pete,_
> 
> _I would like to thank you for all you've done for myself & Robin, and I trust you can extend that gratitude to Laurence as well for allowing us aboard his ship. I have no doubts that despite the turn of events, he has survived his close encounter with the Sirens. Attached are two photos, though I'm sure you won't care for them as I haven't known you to be the sentimental sort; something you share with our Robin, but I digress. They are yours to do as you please with. _
> 
> _And don't fret about the book; by the time you read this, it will have been destroyed-- Jurgen will not be adding this one to his library, I assure you. With it gone, I hope you find your seas safe once more. Well, as safe as they can be._
> 
> _Yours, Addy._

Oliver blinked at the note, reading it a second time, but finding it still didn’t hold any answers to the various questions it gave him. Which was… actually pretty fair. It was Oliver’s fault for prying-- and it wasn’t like he could bring any of this up to Peter without _admitting_ that he’d been snooping. And after Oliver had been so insistent that they avoid talking about their personal lives too. He was _such a hypocrite_.

He folded the note back up, according to the creases in the paper, and tucked it back into the sleeve, but before tucking the photo back in place, he looked over it again. There was just something about Peter’s _expression_ in the picture that… No, he needed to put the album back and just… forget about it.

Tucking the photo away he closed the album and placed it back on the bed beside him as he started playing with his hair again, pulling at the tight coils and trying to see if he could count how many strands had gone white. But he was actually just thinking about what he'd seen in the album.

Truth be told, the interesting story that must be behind the summer of ‘86 intrigued him more than the wedding photo had. Somehow it wasn't all that surprising to find out Peter had apparently been married. His only hope was that he wasn't _still_ married. Although… well, sure morally it should have an effect on him, but at the same time… it would really say more about Peter than it would about him. One of those little grey-areas, y’know?

Oliver sighed, slipping off the bed and taking the album with him as he padded back over to the shelves, slipping the album back in its spot between the acrylic block of a sprawling mansion and a matryoshka doll. He considered the doll for a moment, but then heard a sharp knock on the door. Which seemed odd since most (if not all) of the crew had left the ship, and Peter certainly wasn't going to knock on his own cabin door.

Unless he was maybe carrying something and couldn't open the door. Oliver's shoulders tensed remembering that in his reluctance to leave the ship, Peter had insisted on bringing a souvenir back to him. Oliver wasn't a fan of receiving gifts of any sort; especially not from a casual lover, because it always started with just a simple gift and then…

Oliver opened the door a crack, peeking out. Then, confused by the fact that there seemed to be no one standing there, he opened the door fully. Immediately he caught sight of who had been knocking on the other side. A very short, very pale, very _old_ man was standing somewhere around 4'11" and 5'0" tall with a gaudy button up that practically _screamed_ “tourist”. The colours on it were certainly loud enough that if Oliver heard screaming he'd look at the shirt first and the man wearing it second.

"Can I help you with something?"

The man's thin eyebrows rose, a pleasant smile crossing his wrinkly face. "Ah, a fellow Englishmen so far from home, what a delight. Though, surely I must apologize, I was under the impression that this was Captain Lukas' cabin; was I mistaken?"

Oliver couldn't help biting the corner of his bottom lip. "Yeah, no it is, um… but he's not in right now, probably up on deck, or maybe the bridge." Or probably still off the ship-- there was really no way of knowing.

"Well, he'll probably be back rather soon then, don't you think? I think I'll just wait it out." And before Oliver could process what the man was saying he slipped right under Oliver's arm and puttered into the room, a small walking cane clicking against the floor as he walked. Which only seemed odd because the man didn't actually appear to be relying on it at all.

"Um, there's, uh, it would probably be best to wait in deck actually, Peter doesn't usually—"

"Oh, nonsense, I'm sure the moment Peter returns to the ship, this is the first place he'll come. Probably wondering why I'm here the whole way up. You know those stairs are truly dreadful on my poor legs, would you mind if I sat?" The man gestured his cane at one of the rattan chairs, and Oliver considered saying _no_.

"Of course, um… haven't gotten a name for you yet, though."

The old man sat down with a content sigh, legs hanging over the edge of the chair. "Oh yes, terribly rude of me— I'm Simon, Simon Fairchild?" He spoke as if the name should mean something to Oliver; but it didn't so he just shrugged a shoulder.

"Alright, and why are you here, Mr. Fairchild?"

Fairchild seemed slightly perturbed that his name hadn't had any affect on Oliver, but hummed as he leaned back, placing the cane over his lap. "Well, that's rather personal, you see. And what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." Oliver brushed off the man's question, still standing near the door, rather than to take the other available chair. "Well, like I said, the Captain isn't here right now, and it might be awhile before he gets back, so."

"That's perfectly alright, I don't mind the wait. I certainly hadn't anything better to do, as sad as that is." Fairchild lamented.

Honestly, there was just something so… _feeble_ about the man that Oliver was frankly surprised that there weren't any tendrils present at all. Surely the man must have had at least one foot in the grave. But no, he appeared to be in perfectly good health, and Oliver wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"Are you sure I can't get a name for you? Seems a waste not to since you seem keen to stick around."

Oliver considered the request, but, in the end, conceded. "Antonio."

"Antonio…?"

"Just Antonio is fine. I'm just not sure why you're here, Mr. Fairchild." 

The man hummed again, swaying his head left and right idly. "Well, you see, I owe someone a favour, which that within itself is truly dreadful; but the short of it is, Peter hasn't been answering his phone, and that seems to have upset his dear ex-husband somewhat." He said the last part carefully, and then seemed rather put out that Oliver kept his expression neutral.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that he'd snooped after all; he couldn't imagine what his reaction would have been otherwise if he hadn't already come to terms with most of this information already. "Yeah, he threw his phone off the dock this morning." He deadpanned.

Fairchild seemed entirely taken aback by this. "Did he really? That certainly doesn't sound like him."

Oliver only shrugged. "If it helps, I don't think he did it on purpose, but he probably just hasn't picked up a new one yet." In Oliver's experience, Peter didn't seem to care much for tech of any kind, so that wasn't much of a stretch to assume.

"Hm." Fairchild nodded slowly. "And here I thought I'd come aboard and discover Peter had completely forgotten how to use one again."

Oliver's eyes narrowed, no doubt the 'again' was meant to be some kind of bait; Fairchild struck Oliver as the type of person that enjoyed talking— or maybe _gossiping_ , would be a more accurate term. "Sorry to disappoint; but there you have it, so I assume you'll be leaving now—"

"Oh, no-no-no, I have been sent with a message as well, so we might as well just get comfortable." Fairchild cut him off cheerily.

Oliver bit the tip of his tongue to keep the exasperated sigh inside. "If you'd like, I could get you some pen and paper and you could leave a _note_ , perhaps?"

"Oh, nonsense. I imagine Elias won't be happy unless I do the utmost possible to get a hold of Peter and tell him straight. He's a very demanding fellow, you know. Luckily once I've done what I can, I'll have the pleasure of no longer owing him any favours; which is a position I hope to never be in again." 

_Elias_ … definitely sounded like the name of someone who could be characterized as smug… Not that it mattered, Oliver didn’t care to know anything about Peter’s past or… whatever! None of this meant anything to Oliver in the least, and while he was fairly certain he'd be in the right to just leave, there was just something so off putting about Simon Fairchild that made Oliver certain that the moment he turned his back the man was likely to tear the room apart. Which, the hypocrisy was apparent, but Oliver also got the feeling that Fairchild wouldn't be the type to put something back where he found it. "Why don't I make some coffee then?" He offered, tired of standing in the same place, and feeling the need to do something with his hands.

"Oh, you wouldn’t happen to have any tea, would you? Coffee does terrible things to my poor stomach."

Oliver couldn't stop a sigh from escaping him as he moved to the small kitchenette between the worktable and the seating area. And by kitchenette, he meant it was literally a small counter space with an electric kettle on it, and no other appliances. "Doubt it, Peter doesn't like tea." But he looked through the small cupboard area anyways.

"And what about you, Mr. Antonio? Do you care for tea?"

Oliver shrugged. "It's fine. Don't really have a preference, to be honest." Still, he found something in the very back, a tin of tea covered in dust. Which, yeah, Oliver wasn't going to mention that part. Mr. Fairchild wanted _tea,_ he said. Didn't specify if it should be good tea. Or not-expired. 

Oliver was definitely going to be making some instant coffee for himself, however. "I see... Have you known Peter for long then?"

Oliver flicked the kettle on, and turned to lean his back against the small counter space, and surely enough, Fairchild was leaned over in his chair eyeing the book that was left out on the coffee table. "We met back in Southampton about two weeks ago." 

Fairchild shifted, looking up over his thin wire-framed glasses at Oliver with a slight look of surprise. "Oh? Do you… work aboard the Tundra then? One of the crew, perhaps?"

"No." He did not elaborate, and that seemed to put some distress on Fairchild. Which, honestly, that's what he gets for prying.

"I… I see, well… Hm. I assume this is yours?" He nodded to the book, which it was, though Oliver barely bothered with it. It was some kind of encyclopedia for marine life, but it was a thick read and Oliver really didn't have the degrees to understand half of it.

"And why would you assume that?"

Fairchild sat back with a small huff. "Well, for the same reason I'm going to assume that that jumper you're wearing _isn't_ yours."

Oliver tried very hard not to look down at himself, but ultimately failed, looking down to see the shirt he'd thrown on last night was actually one of Peter's navy blue cable-knit jumpers. Oliver really needed to pay attention to the clothes he grabbed when in a rush. At least he knew that trousers he was wearing were his though. "Fair point." Was all he said before turning back to the kettle. There was a mug that had looked decently cleaned, and he used that to make tea for Fairchild, while filing his own mug with instant coffee and hot water from the kettle. "Would you like anything in your tea?" He asked, already spooning some sugar into his own mug. Another thing that was only in Peter's cabin because of Oliver. So many little details he hadn't even noticed about the place were coming to light now, and he didn't like any of them.

"Some honey if you have it." Fairchild's voice came from a different point in the room, and Oliver looked over his right shoulder to see him standing in front of the back shelves, eyeing the curios along the bottom shelf, given that the other shelves would have required him to stretch to see much of anything.

"I don’t. Sugar or nothing, actually."

"Just black then, thank you."

 _Dark and dusty then_ , Oliver mused, given that the inside of the tea tin hadn't looked any better than the outside. He picked the mug up and stood just within arm's reach of the little old man, holding it out to him.

"Yes, thank you." The man switched the cane to his left and took the mug with his right, returning his scrutiny to the shelves.

"Looking for anything in particular, Mr. Fairchild?" Oliver asked while going back to lean against the counter and hold his own mug.

"Oh no, just perusing. My, my, Peter certainly does love his models." He mused, narrowing his gaze on one of the bottled ships.

Oliver only shrugged, finding he was doing a lot of that as of late. "It's a fun hobby."

"Oh? Any of these yours?"

Oliver shook his head. "He sort of got me to help with the _Sahara_ , but… I don't really have the same kind of patience he does."

"Sahara? Which one would that be?" 

Oliver jutted his chin towards the third shelf, just above Fairchild's head. "That one up there. Finished it recently, but he hasn't started another yet." God, it felt weird talking casually about Peter like he knew him or something. Ridiculous.

"I see… have they all got names then?"

Finally, a question Oliver didn't have an answer for. "No idea. I mean, probably? But can't say for sure." 

"Hm, how odd. What makes this Sahara special then, I wonder?"

Oliver frowned, trying very hard not to give him a proper answer. But he did, "the Sahara was the first ship Peter worked. His uncle's, I think." He tried to say it like he genuinely wasn't sure, but judging by the look Fairchild gave him, he knew that wasn't the case.

"Peter told you all this, did he? My my, he must really like you."

Oliver tried to hide his immediate eye roll reaction by closing his eyes, but when he opened them again, Fairchild was staring at him curiously. “Assume what you like, Mr. Fairchild.”

The man hummed thoughtfully, tapping his cane idly against the floor, before clicking his tongue. “You’re a hard person to read, Mr. Antonio.”

“Thanks.” 

Fairchild didn’t seem pleased by that response, but Oliver genuinely did not care. “Well, well… I see Peter may have met his match; took him long enough.”

Oliver couldn’t stop a grimace from creeping on to his face. “Look, whatever you think is going on between me and the Captain, stop it. Firstly, it ain’t any of your business, and secondly, you’re wrong.”

“Oh? And is that how the _Captain_ feels about it too, I wonder?”

Oliver had to wrap both hands around his mug to keep from throwing it at the old man’s smug little face. He should just leave, save himself the headache-- what did it matter if he ended up trashing the whole room? Not like it was Oliver’s anyways; he was quite literally, under no obligation to stay whatsoever. “I wouldn’t know. Have fun with your snooping, yeah?” Oliver placed the mug down and pushed away from the counter, heading for the door, just as the old man made a sound.

“Oh, seems I’ve struck a nerve, how terribly rude of me, please, allow me to apologize.” Even without looking at the old man, Oliver could hear the genuine _glee_ in his voice as he offered his mocking niceties.

“How about you choke on your tea instead?” Oliver replied, turning to face the old man one last time with a completely serious expression, before he opened the cabin door and slipped out, letting the door click shut behind him. What an insufferable little… So many words came to mind, but none of them seemed to be quite descriptive enough. 

Oliver hadn’t intended to linger, he just needed a moment to catch his breath, before he was about to head to his own room, but a voice called out to him.

“Ah, Antonio, what a pleasure to catch you so easily, are you feeling any better?” Peter was coming down the hall towards him, some kind of shopping bag tucked in the crook of one arm, and his usual disarming smile firmly in place.

“Yeah, hold that thought.” Oliver held up a hand, and Peter stopped short, just out of arm's reach. A frown stretched across his face, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Just one of those little habits that he had… No, it didn’t matter.

“Is something wrong?” 

“Uh, no- _well_ , it’s just, there is… _something_ ,” that seemed like a good word to describe Fairchild by. But before Oliver could continue, Peter’s expression became more sullen, and he only nodded.

“So he is here, isn’t he…” Peter sighed, though it seemed to be for his own benefit.

However, when Oliver opened his mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean, the door to Peter’s cabin opened, and immediately Fairchild extended a warm greeting to his… well, they were probably friends? Oliver had no idea. “Peter, my boy! There you are!”

Peter’s face went through a myriad of emotions before he finally rested a tired expression on Fairchild, “Simon.” Which must have been Peter’s way of greeting the old man, before he set his gaze back on Oliver, and he almost looked… apologetic? “Antonio, I--”

“It’s fine, just please talk to him so he can leave? I am… well, I think I’ll go for a walk, maybe see the city after all?” He turned, heading off down the hall towards the stairs, not waiting for any sort of response from Peter, or the grinning old man standing in the doorway of the cabin. 

“What a charming fellow, eh? Really, you must tell me all about how you met.” 

“I will not. Why are you here?” 

Oliver tried to keep going, to take the stairs down, down, down, and out of the House, but just pausing on the top step, you could almost perfectly hear the conversation between the two men. _This is none of my business_ , he told himself.

“Oh, Elias wanted me to check up on you-- haven’t been answering your phone again, eh? Can’t say I blame you, but… well, I did owe him a favour, and this is… well, this is what I get for that.”

Oliver peeked back around the corner for only the moment, catching a glimpse of Peter still standing in the hall, and seemingly having no intention of going inside his own cabin.

“I lost my phone. What does _Elias_ want?” 

“Just to talk, I imagine; though with that one it’s hard to say what he ever truly wants. Why, I do believe he mentioned a wager of sorts-- that wouldn’t interest you at all, would it?”

There was a pause from Peter, and Oliver stood very still, back against the wall as he tried to breath as quietly as possible so as to better hear. And, to not be heard. _Why am I doing this again? I must have something better to do…_ But did he though?

“Yes, I know about that, I caught as much during my last phone call with him before… before I lost the phone.”

“Oh, really? Must have, erm, _lost it_ , before you got all the details then, eh? Otherwise, I imagine you’d be racing back across the Atlantic by now. You always have been a gambling man, Peter; I know this just as well as Elias. Perhaps that’s for the best though, rather looks like you might have some new, ah… _priorities._ ”

“I can’t say I follow your meaning.”

“Why, Mr. Antonio, of course. Curious fellow, I must say, and I do, in fact, say. A bit on the terse side, but… well, I really must know if he may have any aversions to _heights_ . You know, just for future reference, after you’re--” Fairchild abruptly stopped, and all Oliver could hear was a loud _thud_ , like a body being slammed against a wall, before the clattering of what had to be the old man’s cane. 

Oliver couldn’t stop himself from peeking around the corner again-- and sure enough, he could clearly see where Peter had the old man pinned against the wall outside of his cabin; and he could only hear the vague sound of speech as Peter seemed to almost be _hissing_ his words. But his attention didn’t stay focused on the pair of men, as something small seemed to drop down from the ceiling, skittering over Fairchild’s cane and away from the scene. Apparently the scuffle had knocked a spider loose from the ceiling, but when Oliver heard Fairchild speaking up he ducked back behind the safety of the wall, flattening his back against it, eyes wide. 

“Peter, really, is _this_ necessary, it was merely a- a _joke_ , of course--” but Fairchild was cut off again.

“Best you keep further _jokes_ to yourself, Simon. Need I remind you that you and yours have never been weaker than you are _now_ . Whereas I can _assure_ you, my own has been _thriving_. Do not test me.” 

There was such a palpable pause, that Oliver found himself holding his breath, staring down at his feet with wide eyes as he strained to hear what Fairchild might reply with. But just as the silence seemed to break, Oliver was distracted by something that came creeping around the corner and headed straight for where he stood.

A chubby brown spider stopped just short of him, as if realizing he was there, and Oliver was stuck in a standoff with the little thing as the conversation down the hall continued. “Are you threatening me, Peter?” Fairchild asked.

“I am merely stating _fact_ , Simon.” Peter responded thickly.

There was another pause in the conversation, and Oliver was slowly backing towards the stairs. He tried poking a toe out towards the spider, to scare it off, or shoo it away, but he became acutely aware that he’d taken his slippers off, and his feet were entirely bare, so when the spider, rather than backing off, advanced towards his bare toes, he skipped off further down the steps. 

“I am aware of it, yes.” Peter replied to something Fairchild had said, something Oliver had missed while his attention had been focused on this dumb spider that was still advancing towards him. It was the strangest thing, the way it scuttled towards the top step, where it then lifted it’s front two legs as if trying to scare _Oliver_ away. 

_“What are you doing?_ ” Oliver whispered, hunching down and glaring at the eight-legged fiend. Obviously he hadn’t expected anything to come from this, and yet, the spider actually seemed to pause, turning about in a full circle, as if getting a look at its surroundings. This was the weirdest spider Oliver had ever seen.

But this only lasted a mere moment, before the spider was back on the offense, lurching off the top step and bouncing down the stairs towards Oliver, who had quite had enough of this and took off, fleeing down the stairs until he reached the floor below. He would have continued down the stairwell, but before he even got to the next step down, it felt like he’d brushed through a spider’s web, and that effectively creeped him out enough that he left the stairwell altogether.

It was a split second decision to go into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him. Most of the crew had left the ship since they weren't expected to actually make their way through the canal until the next day, so at least that meant that Oliver wouldn't have to worry about anyone showing up. Oliver spent the first few moments just breathing, and rubbing his hands down his arms, and across his face. He expected to pull back and see little filaments of the web, but there was nothing. Maybe it was just because of the tense situation he’d been in involving a spider that had made him _think_ that he’d...

Probably best to just forget about it. 

Looking around the kitchen now, the thought of making bread crossed his mind. When he'd run off from London to stay in the cottage left to him by his grandmother, he'd spent days upon days just making bread and staying indoors; convinced that if he stayed in that small creaky cabin the tendrils wouldn't reach him. Maybe he'd turned it into a habit now? Whenever things just got a bit too much… he made bread, now. There had to be worse habits for a person to have, right?

Besides, it wasn't like he was going to make like, a dozen loaves or anything. Just one, maybe two. And he knew there was some instant yeast somewhere around, so he wouldn't have to spend multiple hours on it. Oliver just had to do something with his hands, and making bread was great for that, because it also let him focus his attention on making sure it was kneaded properly, that the oven was properly heated; portions were correct. Just a bunch of little things that all eventually resulted in... bread. And a good chunk of time spent being distracted would be a welcome thing at this point.

He sighed, finding the same red apron he'd worn before and pulling it over his head, tying it around his waist before checking his wrists to see if he had a hair tie kicking around. Luckily he did, so he wouldn't have to worry about having hair in his face this time.

He got about getting the ingredients together, keeping his thoughts focused solely on that, and ignoring all the little curious questions that tried to poke their way into his head. Didn’t help that he was getting tired. The sleep he had gotten that night hadn’t exactly been restful, and after he’d essentially snuck out of the Captain’s cabin, he hadn’t seen a point in bothering with trying to go back to sleep. Those handful of hours would have to carry him until the ship was back out in open waters again, and Peter had mentioned something about it taking a day just to get _through_ the canal, and then something else about needing to dock on the other side too, so...

He shook his head, blinking his eyes open wide as he collected his ingredients, setting the yeast aside first, and adding just a pinch of salt to the dish before covering it and waiting for the yeast to start bubbling. Meanwhile, he would get started on mixing the dry ingredients together. Just as he finished that, he clicked his tongue thoughtfully, before looking around for the spice cabinet. He was fairly certain they had rosemary… and he could think of a few other herbs that might be nice for the loaf. Honestly, the more time he spent moving around the kitchen, the more he could almost pretend he was back in Schlehdorf; all he needed was a few windows to prop open while the oven heated. 

He sighed at the dull ache in his chest as he thought about the sleepy little town that he’d spent countless childhood summers in; and later, when the dreams had gotten worse in his adulthood, and he had no family left; he’d returned, hoping to find some peace there. But that wasn’t how it worked, was it? 

Maybe it was a good thing the ship had stopped in Colón after all; he couldn't imagine how he would react, sailing in the middle of the ocean only to have those damn tendrils become so apparent, and large, that they wouldn't be ignored. Maybe he'd start seeing them sooner, too? Instead of a week or so before the carrier was to pass, he'd see them within a month of their coming end? Within a year?

He had no way of knowing; and the more he turned around the various what-ifs the more tired it made him. Which, honestly figured, right? He just had to take his lumps and try to keep going. 

Once the yeast was bubbling sufficiently, he set the oven to preheat, and began mixing all the wet ingredients in with the dry ones, mixing them around in the bowl before flouring a portion of the counter and depositing the lump of dough on top of that. He set the bowl down into the sink before flouring his hands and getting to work with kneading the lumps and air bubbles from the dough. Every so often, reaching over to the spice jars he'd set out and adding them on top of the dough before kneading it in. God, this loaf was gonna smell heavenly by the time he was done.

Once the dough was well kneaded, he put it in a new bowl, covering it with a thin cloth to let it rise. With the method he was using, it would only need to rise once, and then he could knead it again and pop it into the oven.

But now came the waiting, and he knew just keeping on his feet wouldn't be enough to keep him distracted. Plus the impromptu nap from early had had the opposite effect on him, and he just felt more tired than before; so he filled up the kettle with some water and flicked it on, rummaging through the cupboard above for some coffee. Just as he started to look around for his mug, he mentally kicked himself, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. He'd literally just made a mug of coffee up in the cabin, but then that little gremlin of an old man had irked Oliver into completely forgetting it.

Wait... good lord, he'd just called it _the_ cabin. No, no it was _Peter's_ cabin. _The captain's_ cabin! God, if he just started calling it the cabin, it would only be a matter of time before he'd start calling it his, and by then it would probably be too late. No, he had to nip this in the bud before it grew out of control. And he knew just where to start-- the moment that Fairchild guy left, he'd go back up there and clean the place up; clear it away of all his stuff and... Would it be too noticeable if he just ignored the captain for a few days? Besides, it wasn't like he was in the mood for company, given how tired it made him and that would just be a recipe for him nodding off.

Slowly the vague concern melted away, and it wasn't until the oven dinged, letting him know it was done preheating, that he startled, grabbing the edge of the counter to keep from falling off his feet. Had he fallen asleep?

Oliver pinched himself, looking around blearily to make sure there was no orange glow to the room. But no, given how he could feel his heart thumping in his chest, he was definitely awake. Just a brief moment of falling under. Oliver was thankful that he'd remember to preheat the oven; otherwise he might’ve actually fallen asleep on his feet. Wouldn’t have been the first time, unfortunately. He rubbed his hands across his face, not really caring if it got him covered in loose flour. He just needed to try and get some feeling back into his face. Oliver wasn't quite desperate enough to rub at his eyes though. No, he should wash off his hands first; maybe splash some of that water on his face while he was at it. Anything that might get him feeling awake again.

He turned towards the sink, letting the water run cold, rather than warm. Letting it run over his hands to pull off the excess flour and dough until they were clean before splashing water onto his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, or as much as he could. He shook off some of the excess water from his hands before drying them off on his apron, leaning back against the counter and pulling a hand towel off one of the hooks and drying his face on that. It was going to be a long couple of days; longer still if he kept trying to avoid sleep. But that was his lot in life until the ship made it to the other side of the canal and back out into open water.

Oliver peeked at the dough beneath the cloth, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes since he'd set it aside, so it wasn't like he was going to be able to get back to it any time soon. He shifted back and forth on his feet for a moment, before rummaging through the cupboard again and taking down the first mug that caught his eye to make a new cup of coffee in. At least that would keep him busy for another couple of... well, seconds. The kettle had already finished boiling, so it wasn't like he needed to wait for it. 

Once his coffee was made, and still too hot to actually drink, so he puttered around the kitchen, trying to see if there was anything out of place, or possibly in need of cleaning; but Loreto was notoriously good at keeping the place cleaner than a soap bubble. Oliver rolled his shoulders, drumming his fingers against the counter, wondering if there was something else he could bake up alongside the bread that could work as a good in-between project while he waited for the dough to rise, and then for it to finally come out of the oven. But nothing really came to mind, given that he didn't want to use up too much of the ship's stores on idle tasks that he doubted any of the crew would care to consume once they came back aboard.

God, there had to be something he could do to waste time, other than standing around bouncing from foot to foot so he wouldn't fall asleep. Maybe... he could rearrange the cupboard shelf with all the mugs in it? Sort them by... colour or something? That wouldn't be a big deal, would it? From his time on board it didn't seem like any of the crew actually had any preferred mugs amongst them, and the mugs were constantly getting shifted around anyways. And there were a dozen or so mugs in there, so it could potentially take up enough time for the dough to finish rising.

So he did that, for about 15 minutes, because every time he thought he was done, he'd look at it again and think... _you know what... maybe that mug ought to be over next to that one instead? Should probably group all the mugs with anchors on them together... colour code those ones? Then have all the blank mugs on the other side of the self, and colour code those ones separately?_

By the time he'd started getting tired of that, he checked on the dough, and was happy to find that the quick-rise had quickly risen after all. He washed his hands again, (given how dusty some of the mugs had been) before setting to work flouring his hands and the counter again before kneading the dough once more. He might've become a bit too engrossed in the process, and was at least on some level convinced he might've over-kneaded it, but by that point he'd grabbed the pan he'd already gotten out in the ingredients-gathering stage, plopped the dough in and slid it into the preheated oven. 

It would still be about an hour before it would be ready to come out, but that was fine; because now there was nothing stopping him from giving the counter space he'd been using a deep clean; and his coffee had cooled enough to be drinkable; so all and all, things seemed to be right on track.

Of course, he may have started preheating the oven a little sooner than was necessary, and the kitchen was getting pretty warm, so before getting started with anything, he went to pop open on the doors, letting the cold air of the ship mix with the heated air of the kitchen. It was about as close to opening a window as he was going to get, it seemed. Although, through one of the doors was the main dining area, and that space had windows. But after a cursory glance, he realized they were not the type that could be propped open, so he let them be, returning to the kitchen to do his cleanup.

This was all very boring, so there was no real need to narrate any of it. Safe to say he may have gone a bit overboard with his cleaning, but that was fine. He had every intention of leaving the place as clean as he'd found it; but smelling of various herbs and fresh baked bread. Two things that he was sure anyone could appreciate.

Once he’d finished his coffee, he’d even given his mug a wash, despite knowing full well he was just going to make up another cup anyways. And all of this barely took up an half hour, leaving him to putter around the kitchen anxiously. Maybe he ought to go grab a book? Something to read while he waited. It would also be something to occupy him once the bread came out of the oven as well. He peaked in on the dough, just to be safe; double checked that he'd set the timer, before taking off towards his room to retrieve a book. 

All and all, it would only take him a few minutes at most to grab the first book he saw and return to the kitchen; but just after he'd gotten a book in hand, he heard voices in the hall, and immediately darted over to push his door to a near close. He propped it open just enough to peak out.

Just as he'd thought, it was Peter leaving his cabin with the Fairchild in tow. He honestly had no idea why he'd expected the old man to be gone by now; but also... he hadn't really been thinking about any of that since he'd taken off down the stairs. Oh shit, and now he was left in the perfect position to do some eavesdropping again; but he really didn't want to either... but also if he just left his cabin he might have to actually talk to the Fairchild again. And there was just something so... wrong about this withered old walking skeleton of a man that made Oliver's skin crawl.

But it didn't actually sound like they were talking, just Peter silently escorting Fairchild towards the stairwell; that is until just a few feet before Oliver's door, the old man jumped ahead of Peter and spun on his heel. "Actually, I do have just one more question, if you'd humour me?"

“No.” But Peter didn’t really have any choice but to stop when Fairchild refused to move any further. 

Swallowing a sigh, he closed his eyes and counted to three, before he pulled his door open, stepping out and bringing it to a close behind him, keeping his gaze casually focused on the book in his hand like it was the only thing worth his attention. Yet, just out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Fairchild turning around, and supposedly about to say something, right before he picked up on movement from Peter-- but when he turned his head to look up, there was… no one in the hall with him.

He blinked, looking down at his book, then looking up again-- right at the spot that Fairchild and Peter should have been standing. Oliver did this a few times, even casting a glance down the other end of the hall, eyeing the closed doors to see if there was some joke at play. “Uh… yeah, okay.” It wasn’t, by any definition of the word, _okay_. But… Oliver also wasn’t about to let it get to him. What would be the point? So he took a breath, and headed towards the stairwell to go check on his bread. Which seemed far more important than trying to figure out if he’d finally gone off the deep end.

When Oliver returned to the kitchen, he checked the oven’s timer first, finding he still had about 27 minutes left. He drummed his fingers against the cover of the book in his hand, wondering if he actually wanted to read. Seemed like a shame to have gone all the way to his cabin for it, and then _not_ . But there was also something deeply upsetting about quite a few things that had occurred today, and in his efforts to think about none of them; he was finding himself thinking about _all of them_. Which really just made his head hurt, and that made him even more tired than he already was.

It wasn’t like people disappearing on the ship would be _that_ out of sorts, all things considered. How many times had Oliver been certain that he was alone, only to feel something brush against his shoulder, or elbow, or back-- all while standing away from any walls or surfaces that could reasonably explain such a thing. How many times had he been on deck, just standing with Erasmus when he would notice the cat staring off at a specific corner; which by all accounts wouldn’t be all that out of sorts for a cat, if it weren’t for the slow _blink_ of familiarity that Erasmus would do at the empty space. 

He wasn’t even going to start with the oddity of the crew. How they all seemed to hate the very ship they sailed on, but nevertheless seemed bound to it. How there was one chair in the galley that _no one_ ever sat at. No matter how crowded it would get, the entire crew all seemed to ignore that one chair like it didn’t exist. Even Tadeas seemed affected by it all, though clearly to a lesser degree. Yet, when the ship had been passing through the tail end of a rainstorm, and Oliver had thought to take out one of the windbreakers before going on deck; Tadeas had been the one to stop him. This had confused Oliver, wondering why it would be such a big deal if he borrowed a windbreaker, until Tadeas had pulled out another one, doing so in such a way that it seemed the first mate had been going out of his way not to touch _that specific one_ that Oliver had first reached for. It was only a matter of time before Oliver noticed that _no one_ touched that windbreaker, no matter how bad the weather would get, even with all hands on deck and every other one taken; that one remained.

But since they’d made port, Oliver was fairly certain that if he went looking for that windbreaker, with the initials _Y.P_ on the tag, he wouldn’t find it. 

And then there was that time, it had been just like any other day; Oliver had been helping in the kitchen before he’d gone off back to his cabin, but just as he’d made it to the top of the stairs, all the lights seemed to have flickered out. At the time, that hadn’t been all that strange, Oliver had been ready to assume it was just a blown fuse or something, until he had the very real understanding that he wasn’t alone in that darkened hallway. How with each step, there seemed to be the sound of a second, just out of time with his own that it couldn’t have been an echo. But like water off a duck’s backside, he’d just let the whole thing slide off him, ignoring it and never once bothering with trying to look over his shoulder to see if anyone-- or anything-- had been behind him. As dark as it had been, it wasn’t like he would’ve been able to see if there had been anyways.

There was also that one day that he’d just found knives laying around everywhere. But that one seemed a little less weird, and more like someone was probably trying to play some sort of practical joke or something.

A bunch of small, decidedly inconsequential things, that now seemed more akin to sticks being thrown in a pile; and now because of some quirky old man everything about these various events seemed so much larger, a pile of twigs itching to be ignited.

Oliver was leaning against the counter, drumming his fingers against the cold surface with his head bent and eyes closed. He needed to think about something else. That much seemed obvious; but it wasn't like he had a lot going on for him. The bread wasn't done yet, and he honestly didn't feel like starting another loaf. All he wanted was that sweet release of a good rest, but he knew he wasn't likely to get that. He hung his head down lower until it pressed against the counter. The first day without sleep was always the worst, he knew this. But that didn't mean he couldn't hate it anyways. If he could just make it through today, then the rest would follow in a slow tide of numbness. Oliver would still feel tired, still have the need for rest, but it would all be washed out with a dull ache.

"Coffee." He mumbled, rubbing a hand across his face before straightening and turning towards the kettle, only to have his entire body freeze at the sight of something standing in the open doorway. It took a few panicked seconds for his mind to catch up with what his eyes saw, and he let out a long exhale. "Captain, you really have to stop showing up out of the blue without announcing yourself."

Peter stood in the doorway, looking entirely unfazed by the tension he'd created with his silent entrance. Honestly, how did a man that large manage to move about without making any sound. "Apologies. I saw the door was open and... well, I thought I might like some coffee myself, actually."

Oliver nodded, still rubbing the side of his face as he flicked the kettle back on, the water having already gone cold enough that it wouldn't be of much use. "Makes sense. I take it that Fairchild guy left then, yeah?"

"He is no longer aboard the ship, yes."

Oliver squinted at his wording, but decided not to comment. He had enough on his mind already, if the Captain went and disappeared some old man, it was quite frankly, none of his business. "Did you have a nice chat?" He asked instead, pulling down the coffee tin while wondering why he'd even bothered with putting it away.

"Hardly, but that was to be expected. I... how did your conversation go with him? It seems you spent enough time in his presence for him to take somewhat of interest in you."

Oliver frowned, taking down a second mug for Peter as he considered the comment. "Dunno. Couldn't put up with him for longer than a few minutes, to be honest."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Peter offering a tight lipped smile. "Yes, Simon is... well, he would describe himself as an acquired taste."

Oliver snorted. "He can describe himself however he likes, still just gonna be a fancy way of admitting he's a prick."

“Well… yes. He certainly can be a bit much.”

“Nosy as all hell, too. How’d you even meet a person like that? Close friend of a great grandpa, maybe?”

Peter seemed to consider the question quite seriously, not quite shaking his head before saying. “Not exactly. My great grandfather wasn’t really the type to have close friends, but… I suppose if it’s all the same in the end.”

Oliver blinked, unsure of what to say to that. “Sorry, um… exactly how old is this Fairchild guy?”

Peter eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “If I were to be generous, I’d say he was likely born in the mid 1600s.”

Oliver was fairly certain that if it had been anyone else to say something like that, he never would have entertained it for a second. But… _well._ He had spent nearly a decade of his life now having prophetic dreams of the deaths of others so… really, why couldn’t there be some 400 year old evil little man running around? Seemed rude to assume that couldn’t be the case. And, well, if anything; maybe that could explain why Oliver was so offset by the Fairchild? Death and dying had become such a natural part of his life, that obviously it would be a bit upsetting to come face to face with some little skeleton man that refused to die. It only took Oliver a few seconds for him to decide this was a rational train of thought. “Yeah, alright.”

He turned back to the mugs in front of him as he reached for the little sugar bowl. He could feel the way Peter was eyeing him curiously, as if he’d been expecting some other reaction, and wasn’t sure what to do with the one he’d gotten instead. In the end, it seemed Peter had decided to one up Oliver for unexpected reactions; coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around Oliver’s waist before resting his chin against Oliver’s shoulder. “Could you put some sugar in mine too, please.”

Oliver wanted to relax into the comfortable embrace, but there were just so many things on his mind and none of them were adding up quite right; so he kept his muscles tensed as he nodded. “Sure. How much?”

Peter rubbed a cheek against the side of his neck, humming, “just a spoonful, not too much.”

“Sure.” He really wasn’t trying to sound distant, or maybe he was? Really, it just wasn't fair, what gave the Captain the right to be so... comfortable? He was like a walking pillow combined with a space heater. It was ridiculous, and entirely unfair; and honestly, Oliver was fairly certain that the Captain wasn’t even aware of it. “I’ve got bread in the oven too; it’ll be too hot to eat the moment it’s done, but maybe for later?”

“Ah, is that what that lovely scent in the air is?” If Peter thought it smelled good now, Oliver wondered what he’d think when the oven was actually opened.

“Yup.” Oliver finished portioning out the coffee and sugar, so he pushed the mugs back next to the kettle, which hadn't quite finished boiling yet. Then, without really thinking, he rolled his shoulders, giving Peter the incentive to move back, lifting his chin off Oliver's right shoulder.

When Oliver's shoulders relaxed again, Peter didn't lean back in. Instead, he stepped away, grip loosening from Oliver's waist as he moved to the side to face Oliver. "Is something wrong?"

He kept his gaze forward, focused on the water as it bubbled within the kettle. "No."

Clearly, Peter didn't believe this, taking a short breath before he completely let go of Oliver. "Have I done something to upset you?"

Now, Oliver understood that, on some level, Peter was the type of person that required a bit more reassurance than most. Some people were just like that, for a multitude of possible reasons; and generally speaking, it wasn't something that Oliver saw as a problem. But. 

But... Oliver had a lot of emotions that were all pent up inside of him. All those strange happenings that were now so apparent and seemed, in some way, interconnected, were just creating a lot of tension inside of him. And rather than communicating that, he found himself slipping into a very bad habit; a habit that had once aided in one of the worst, lengthiest break-ups he'd ever had. He was gonna release some tension by starting a fight. Leaning away from the counter, he faced Peter with a sharp, quizzical expression. "Who hurt you, Pete?"

The Captain stared at him, eyebrows raised in a look of mock surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

Oliver gave a lazy shrug, "it's just that, every time I seem to be in a mood, you've got to immediately assume it's got something to do with you. So, either you're just a narcissist who thinks the whole world revolves around you, or maybe, you've just had a string of bad relationships that have left you feelin' a little self conscious. Or, _or_ , maybe mummy just didn't love you enough, eh?"

When Oliver first started going off, Peter looked confused, then somewhat amused, until finally he scowled, before scoffing at Oliver's final assumption. "I-- well," he huffed. "I think someone might be in need of a nap."

Oliver stood there, mouth hanging open, before he just... "No. N- _no_." He figured if he repeated the word enough times, he might be able to work himself back up, but that single comment had completely extinguished whatever hateful energy Oliver had worked himself up to in the first place. He exhaled a tired sigh. "Can you just go away?"

And had he been talking to anyone else, surely that would've been enough to convince them to leave in a burst of anger. But while Peter did appear to be rather taken aback by Oliver's sudden change in attitude, he quickly appeared to be more fascinated than anything else. Honestly there were a lot of things about how he was currently looking at Oliver that... really, just needed to be added to the growing pile of things Oliver really didn't want to get into. The Captain did seem to be somewhat aware of just how expressive his face was, and tried clearing his throat before saying, "If that's what you'd like, then of course."

Oliver gestured vaguely to the open door behind the Captain. "Off you go then." He turned back to the kettle that had finished boiling by then, and he muttered something along the lines of, "take the whole damn city with you when you go."

Which in that moment, seemed to be a mistake, as it stopped Peter in his tracks, and he turned back with a curious look on his face. "The city?"

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. _Fuck_. Because that's what it was all about, wasn't it? He really wasn't all that tired, was he? He wasn't made at the Captain for any reason, or suddenly upset by all the weirdness of the ship- it was the city. The persistent weight that was pushing against him from all sides until it was near impossible to focus on anything else. But he couldn't admit that, could he?

He could still feel Peter watching him, and after a few moments of silence, the Captain spoke up again. "Well, if the city is the actual problem, then I'm afraid there really isn't anything I can do... per say."

Oliver frowned. "What's that supposed to mean, exactly?"

"What I mean is, I can't get rid of the city, but... I can take you somewhere else, if you'd like." The Captain extended a hand, and Oliver stared at it, confused by the gesture. It wasn't like Peter to be vague without cause: so the offer was somewhat intriguing, to say the least. When Oliver still hadn't made a move, Peter asked, "would you like to disappear, Antonio?"

And Oliver got the strangest sense that the Captain had asked him something like that before. Yet the exact memory of it was distant and shrouded in fog. Oliver decided in that moment to just go along with whatever the Captain had in mind. 

Reaching out, Oliver took the hand offered to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: casual violence, spiders, dread- although maybe not to the point of 'existential', Oliver just has a lot on his mind.


	9. 01: Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something familiar about this place, but it won't help to remember why. In fact, you won't remember this at all, will you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

He couldn't recall with any real clarity of what happened next. Only that one second he was standing in the Tundra's kitchen, and within the next tick of a clock, the cold floor turned to sand beneath his feet. After kicking his slippers off when he'd tried taking a nap earlier, he never put them back on, so he was immediately aware of the grainy texture underfoot. The soft crashing of waves, and the smell of salt and wet sand; the air was cold and thick, like a foggy morning. And as he blinked his eyes open, he understood why that would be the case.

Grey fog clung to the shore, and swirled all around, hanging thick and heavy in the air. Where he was, he couldn't say, but he felt such overwhelming calm that he nearly lost his composure entirely. An intense weight had been lifted, one that had become so monotonous and ever-present, that it wasn't until it was gone entirely that he could name it. Even on the safety of the Tundra, Oliver had still felt the weight of all those deaths from within the city, just beyond docks. A heaping mass of all the lives lost, or soon to be so, that had been bearing down on him since the ship had made port. But here? In this fantastical place, none of that seemed to be able to reach him. He was alone, and free of those pulsating tendrils, on a grey stretch of lonely shore.

He moved towards the water, and immediately felt an arm wrap around his waist as he was pulled close to someone. "I wouldn't stray too far."

Oliver jumped at the sudden embrace, turning around to face the Captain, "Oh, sorry."

Peter gave him a curious look. "Did you forget that I was here?"

"What? No, no... maybe?" Oliver gave a less than convincing smile, before letting it drop, his eyes scanning the wispy fog that drew closer around them. "How did we get here?" He asked, unsure of how long he'd been staring distractedly over the Captain's shoulder.

"I'm afraid that's a family secret." Peter replied, and Oliver frowned at him, waiting for the punchline that wouldn't come.

"Oh, you're serious. Okay, then." Oliver didn't question it further, and yet again, found himself drawn towards the water, only to be pulled back against the Captain again.

"Wandering off isn't advised."

"Then come with me," Oliver pulled away, but kept his hand in Peter's, pulling him towards the water. There was just something about the grey waves that made Oliver want to know what they would feel like. Would it be cold? Warm maybe? Or would it feel like nothing at all?

"Antonio, what are you doing?" Peter was pulled along, reluctant and confused.

Oliver shrugged his response, before dipping his toes into the dull looking water. His eyes immediately widened, and he looked back over at Peter with a shocked expression. "This is so unbelievable."

Peter only frowned at him. "It's only water."

"No, no... it's like... well, it is like water, but if... water just didn't feel like anything? But also tingled…?" Oliver moved his feet around in the water, everything from his ankles down going numb.

"Please come out of there. I don't imagine it's very good for you, whatever it is."

"Oh, come on. Where's your sense of adventure, Captain?"

"Antonio, you're acting very strange." Peter ignored Oliver's question, giving Oliver's hand a tug, most likely in an attempt to pull him back out of the water.

But Oliver resisted, swallowing a giddy chuckle. "Honestly? I don't think I've felt more like me than I do right now." It was like this place had leached the last few years clean out of him, and he could just... exist without a care. "Join me for a swim?" He asked, wadding a little further out, until Peter was left standing on the very edge of where the wet sand ended, and the water began, lapping just shy of his boots.

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? Scared someone might see you letting loose a bit? I thought this place's whole schtick was that there's nobody else, right?"

Peter squinted at him. "And who told you that?"

"You did, didn't you? The last time I was here. You told me the name of this place too, I think." 

"You remember that now?"

"I mean, sort of? I... I know I've been here before, and... I can kind of recall things you said, but... I guess it's all still a bit foggy." Oliver gestured around with his free hand a second later, adding with a note of sarcasm, "Can't imagine why, though."

"I see. Well, if you can remember all that, perhaps you can enlighten me as to how you got away?"

Oliver frowned, finally stepping back out of the water to peer curiously up at the Captain. "What are you talking about?"

"Peter considered the question, reaching up with his free hand to brush Oliver's hair back from his neck, and keeping his gaze focused there as he twirled a few strands between his fingers. "You wanted to stay here, and you were so adamant about it, I couldn't refuse. I left you here, in the Forsaken; then a couple of hours later, Tadeas came knocking on my cabin door with you in tow."

"That's weird. Why would I want to leave this place?" Oliver definitely didn't remember all that. Well, no, he did remember going to Peter's cabin that night, following after Tadeas; but he was surprised that that had happened before that interaction. While Oliver was certain now that he'd been in this place before, he was surprised to find out it had been that long ago, and on that specific night. But that night had stood out for other reasons, the main one being that it had been the first night Oliver had gotten any real sleep, without even a single dream. The second being how it had been when he'd woken up feeling so sore, like... Like he'd been...

A chill ran down Oliver's spine, and he tensed, that familiar weight that he'd spent so many years being crushed beneath was back again. It had started slowly, unobtrusive at first, but now, after his stark realization of what likely had occurred, he couldn't ignore it any longer. Whatever had happened last time, it was going to happen again. With a slight variation, however; because this time, Oliver wasn't alone, and the growing dark mass of tendrils that were slowly making their advance through the thickening fog didn't seem to be opposed to taking more than just Oliver from this place. And that realization sent a wave of panic through him, and he recoiled, pulling his hand free from Peter's.

"Antonio?" Peter managed to catch him by the wrist, a vague look of concern written across his face.

" I can't stay here." Oliver said, not knowing how else to explain it. But still, he tried. "I want to stay, I-- this place is... But It won't let me."

Peter gave him a bemused expression. "It? Does...  _ It  _ have a name?"

"I- if it does, I don't know it," which was the truth, at least. Oliver could make conjecture after conjecture, or try as he might to give It a name himself, but... What meaning did a name have? Such a superficial waste of his time. "But I don't think It likes you."

The Captain seemed momentarily offended by the last part. "And why might that be?"

"You've been an unnecessary complication, It... It isn't ready for you though, not yet... very complicated."

Peter looked at him as though he was trying very hard to understand what Oliver was saying, but it simply wasn't clicking. Still, it was nice he was trying, wasn't it? That was probably more than what anyone else would have given him. "Antonio, I don't understand."

Oliver was at a crossroad between frustrated and hopeless. Surrounding them on all sides now, just beyond the fog, were those tendrils. Thick and pulsating, and yet, it almost appeared as though the fog was making its own attempts to hold them back. But... Oliver had years of experience and knew that it was only delaying the inevitable. "We could leave, right now. We can go back to the ship, right?"

"Antonio, you don't have to go anywhere. Nothing can reach you here, that isn't how They work."

He wanted nothing more than to believe that. But just below surface level, Oliver knew what the problem was. Peter couldn't see it. Pairing that revelation with the sound of something shifting up from the water, a cold tendrils wrapping around his ankle... Oliver didn't have time to explain anything. So, instead of pulling back again, he leaned closer and raised his hands to cup Peter's face, forcing a small smile and making himself look more relaxed than he could possibly feel. He wanted to look as if he believed whole-heartedly in what the Captain had said. This succeeded in getting Peter to loosen his grip on Oliver's wrist, his own expression softening under Oliver's touch.

Under different circumstances it would've been quite the tender moment. But as the tendril spread up his leg, latching around his waist, Oliver knew that this was where the moment ended. The last words he said to the Captain were, "You're wrong."

And once again, Oliver was left with a small gap in his immediate memory, no doubt due to the sudden whiplash as he was dragged out across the water, before being dunked under into the depths of the Forsaken's vast and lonely ocean.

The feeling of being left adrift overwhelmed him, as he realized if he tried to draw breath, he'd choke on the water that surrounded him. But for now, he was alone, slowly sinking into the water, and no longer feeling the tendril around him. Slowly coming out of his daze, he started trying to move his arms, legs, everything; to push himself up from the water and break the surface. But before he could even right himself, he felt a weight against his chest, bearing down on him, forcing him deeper and deeper into the grey water.

He tried to push, or pull against whatever was against him, but with each passing second, it got heavier and heavier, to the point he couldn't focus on anything, his head aching as he tried so hard not to open his mouth, to not fool himself into trying to draw breath. This wasn't a dream, he couldn't will himself back to land, or to act like he could breath water. But as the weight grew against him, he could feel the snap and crack of his ribcage, and he gasped, letting that cold, tasteless water into his mouth, down his throat, and into his lungs.

He struggled, panicked beyond rational thought, screaming out into the quiet empty ocean to no avail as he sank further and further and further. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, and there was nothing and no one that could save him now as he took in more and more of that grey liquid, the edge of his vision going black, until he couldn't even make out the dim light from above. But whether this was due to his blackout, or from the growing mass that was forcing him beneath, he wouldn't be able to say.

This is how he would die.

\--- --- ---

It was dark. The air was stale, and cold. But there was an almost earthy taste to it as he drew breath.

He was breathing. That had to be a good sign. Perhaps the Captain had come in after him; pulled him from the nightmare that had tried to consume him?

Oliver knew this wasn't the case, as he shifted, aware that he was sitting upright, back against something cold and rough. He placed his hands against his chest, feeling down across his ribcage, expecting to feel it broken, shattered bones sticking out from his skin, slick with his own blood. But he was... entirely unharmed. As far as he could tell, at least. And his clothes didn't feel wet, or torn. Slowly, his eyes started to adjust to the darkness around him, and he was faintly aware that there was a light source coming from somewhere. A dull... orange glow... illuminating everything from somewhere behind him...

No. Not behind him, from above. Placing his hands against what he sat against, it... it felt like the trunk of a tree; and slowly, he tilted his head back, leaning against this trunk and looking up from where the light source seemed to be steadily glowing. No. Not glowing...  _ pulsing _ .

Far above him, at the top of the impossibly large tree he sat against, he could see the branches of it, spreading up and out, similar to a willow in how they bent and bowed, but just different enough that Oliver didn't actually feel right about describing it as such. The branches were bare of any leaves, but seemed to have a few bulb-like blossoms that glowed continuously with that sickly orange, while the branches themselves seemed to steadily pulse a dull red, as if supplying these bulbs with their source of light.

Or with... something else, maybe.

Oliver didn't know how long he had his head tilted back, staring up at these gleaming little bulbs; but he didn't look away, not until he noticed how one seemed to move on it's branch. Further out, and hanging on one of the lower branches, a bulb swayed, before Oliver heard a small pop, and it fell from the tree. It shone so brightly on it's way down that Oliver almost had to look away-- until it hit the ground, maybe half a dozen meters from where Oliver sat. The bulb cracked against the ground, the light from within oozing out from its shell, and Oliver watched as... oh, it was a tendril, wasn't it? There were tendrils here, of course there were...

But, no... not quite. They certainly were the tendrils he remembered, but as they stretched out towards the fallen bulb, soaking up the glowing substance, he watched as the tips turned red, and began to pulsate, sending a line down and straight towards the tree, no break between the tendrils and the base of the tree. Oliver stared down at where he sat, surrounded not by tendrils, but  _ roots _ . The blackened, decaying roots of this great tree. Tentatively, and with some amount of awe, he placed a hand down against the nearest root, watching as it glowed beneath his fingers, and all around him, every root, and the deep scars within the bark of the tree light up bright red, fading orange, before lighting up red again. Over and over and over and-- 

To say it came alive beneath his touch wouldn't be correct at all. But It knew he was there. It wanted him there.

And he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

As this thought crossed Oliver's mind, he could feel the roots shifting, lifting up from the ground that some of them were half-buried beneath and circling around him, pressing against him. Cradling him, even, It was overwhelming, to put it lightly, and Oliver reached out, wrapping his arms around the nearest root and nestling down against it, feeling it thrum against his touch. He knew he was crying, but he wouldn't be able to say why.

"I'm sorry." Was all he could think to say. in the midst of all the complicated emotions that were overcoming him as he laid among the roots.

But It was patient, so very patient; even for him.

* * *

Oliver Banks would find himself waking up in his bed some time later. Uncertain of when he'd gotten there, or how exactly, and feeling as though he were forgetting something; something ever so important, yet just out of reach.

He would even run into the Captain of the Tundra, and be ever so confused by the man's questions, unable to answer any of them, or even understand what he was talking about. He would be equally confused by the lingering smell of burnt bread that hung in the air around the kitchen. But, at the news that by next morning the ship would begin its journey through the Canal, he would let all these odd little moments go, feeling a moment of peace that he would finally be able to continue on towards his long awaited destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: another chapter that takes place within the Lonely, brief description of injury, implied character death, existential dread, implied memory loss.


	10. VII. Into the Pacific

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's this? The Tundra finally begins her travel through the Pacific? It's about time, now isn't it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

The Tundra had passed through the canal by late afternoon of the next day, stopping only briefly on the other side for an hour or two before properly shipping out from the coast. Oliver stayed in his cabin throughout it all, having no reason to stand on deck and watch as the shore got further and further away, and the expanse of ocean stretched out and around the ship. The hum of the engines swelled through the Tundra, and Oliver felt a dull calm settle over him at the feeling of motion all around him. There may have been moments of distraction where Oliver had forgotten why he was on the Tundra in the first place, but as they left Panama behind them, he couldn’t stop the feeling of anticipation from welling up from somewhere inside him. 

But by that evening, that same excitement was extinguished like the flame of a candle in a drafty room. 

James Carson was the name of the new crew member they'd picked up in Colón, and Oliver despised him on sight. Not for any superficial reason. By all accounts, Carson was a wonderful person, courteous to a fault, a hard worker, and though he didn't seem to have the same reservations when it came to the usual silence that plagued the Tundra, he didn't force conversation on anyone.

But he was dying. And it made Oliver nauseated, watching the man hum as he went about his work, all while those thick tendrils pulsated against his skin and sprouted from his chest. A heart attack of all things. And one that Carson likely could have survived-- had he stayed on land. And with the ship growing closer and closer to Point Nemo, Oliver had hoped to spend the last weeks, or days, getting rest and enjoying good company. But with Carson on the ship, Oliver soon found himself scarcely able to leave his cabin. Even through the walls he could feel the man's imminent death seeping throughout the ship. And what came with that was a certain paranoia. He’d barely slept the entire time they’d stayed in Colón, and now he didn’t sleep at all.

A small part of him was somewhat surprised by this. After all, it was one man. Why should he let that stop him from getting rest? But old habits being what they were, Oliver couldn’t bring himself to rest, no matter how many times he tried to lay down and force himself to sleep, he couldn’t do it. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to know where he would die; or to dream, and come to find out that he was wrong about the actual cause. He could only discern so much from a daylight glance; whereas the dreams had always been far more detailed about how a person would pass.

And so night soon turned to day, and then to the next day; Oliver could discern clearly enough that it would be 4 days out from shore that Carson would pass; and thanks to his lack of sleep, he was convinced that there was a chance that best case scenario, it would only delay the ship-- but worst case? What if the crew decided to turn the ship around? Sail back to give the body to the proper authorities or what have you? Then what if said-authorities thought there was foul play involved? What if they started investigating the crew, investigating _him_. That would be the end of it, wouldn’t it? He’d probably never get another chance to go to Point Nemo again, that was almost certain.

Oliver had no idea if these were reasonable concerns, but it still pulled at him; running through his mind again and again and again until he was almost certain that the latter would happen. But what was he supposed to do? He didn't even know where to start with that question. What could he do? Despite the ship's original domineering visage, the Tundra really wasn't that large; it's not like he could just hide Carson's body somewhere once he kicked off-- and that was only assuming that he didn't die while in the presence of the other crew.

Then again... The ship _itself_ could be rather loud, the engines at least; and with the wind and ocean splashing against the Tundra’s sides so loudly most nights-- well, he doubted anyone would hear an overly large splash if something, or _someone_ , happened to tip over the rail. And given how recluse the crew could be, he really did believe no one would think anything of Carson's presence simply... not being as prominent aboard the ship.

It was by the third night, that Oliver finally left his cabin to do more than simply grab food from the kitchen. He couldn’t stand staying in the same place, only doing the occasional pacing. And from what he’d been able to tell, Carson worked the day shifts, so at the very least he could wander the ship without bumping into him. And in his intrepid attempts to stave off the need for sleep he’d been downing so much damn coffee, that he was practically vibrating whenever he stayed still for too long. Just a quick walk up on the main deck, that’s all he was going to do; maybe some fresh air would help perk him up so he wouldn’t need to drink any more coffee?

Oliver didn’t even bother entertaining the distant hope of that. He went first towards the bow, before doubling back when he heard the sound of one of the crew, and instead went towards the back of the ship, wringing his hands as he gazed unfocused at the water over the railing. He couldn’t quite decide if everything looked _sharper_ , or just… fuzzy. Which was odd, wasn’t it? How could something be sharp _or_ fuzzy? Certainly couldn’t be both, could it?

He was so wrapped up in trying to describe how everything looked (to himself, inside his own head) that he rounded the corner towards the back of the ship and almost immediately collided into someone. Stumbling back a few steps, he nearly fell off his feet.

“ _Fuck._ ” He glared in the direction of whoever he’d bumped into and… _of-fucking-course._

“Oh, sorry about that, you alright?” Carson looked concerned, holding out a hand, as if to catch Oliver if he fell over.

“ _I_ am perfectly fine. You, though-- what are you doing out here?” He really didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it definitely did.

But good ol’ Carson seemed entirely unfazed by Oliver’s tone. “Just doing a bit of fixing. Tad thought the lights back here were blown out, but turns out something's been munching on the wires. Guess the ship’s cat hasn’t been doing her job, eh?”

Oliver kept his face as stoic as possible, lest a guilty expression slip through. Erasmo had really been the only one Oliver had bothered spending any time with. Mostly because the cat kept scratching at his door anyways, so his choice was to either let them continue to make a racket, or just let them in. “Don’t see why we need lights back here anyways.”

Despite his snappish tone, Carson actually laughed, “well, have you considered the lack of light is why you can’t see right?” The man finally started to falter when Oliver gave no response. “Okay, not my best joke but, you know, you said you couldn’t _see_ , and--”

“Yeah, I got it just fine, thanks.”

Carson recoiled slightly, finally seeming to have his spirits dampened enough to actually shut up. “Right… okay.” Oliver’s gaze was entirely distracted by the tendrils peeking out of the collar of the man’s shirt, the way they twisted and pulsed, no doubt keeping rhythm with the man’s current heartbeat.

When the man finally stepped away, Oliver was able to look somewhere else, casting his gaze towards the ground. What he saw there wasn’t much better. Carson had knelt down beside an open panel, which presumably was where the wires for the backlights were [i’m tired i don’t know]; and at his feet a cluster of tendrils shifted. The very spot the man stood was the same spot he would die. Oliver couldn’t stop himself from noting how… out of the way this place was. But if Carson was fixing the lights right now, what reason would he have to be in this spot again?

“Sorry, I’ve… I’m being a bit rude, aren’t I? There’s not usually anyone about this late and… well, why are you fixing the lights in the dark? Must be terribly hard to see.” Oliver spoke up when he saw Carson getting ready to speak as well. 

Carson paused, flashing his torch towards the ground, and looking back up at Oliver. “Well… _technically_ I was supposed to get it done this morning, but uh, the ship's been having some issues with Her engine, so I sort of… let the time get away from me.”

“So are you a mechanic or an electrician?” 

Carson smirked at this, pointing his torch at the wires again. “Bit of both, but I’m only any good with ships and the like. Spent most of my career on feeders though, so it’s a bit of a learning curve doing work on a ship this size. Can’t say I’m surprised She needs so much fixing since you guys didn’t seem to have a mechanic before I got on board. Kind of surprised you made it across the Atlantic without one.”

“Not a part of the crew, so I can’t really say.”

Carson placed a wrap on the ground beside his one knee, rolling it out to reveal a mess of wire replacements and a few tools that Oliver would be the wrong person to ask the names of. “Hm, figured you were the mysterious passenger I’ve heard so little about. You seem to be about as elusive as our dear Captain. Still ain’t met him yet.”

Oliver began wringing his hands again, feeling the conversation slip out of his control. If he could distract Carson, convince him to work on the lights later, then maybe he could stretch it out for another day. After all, if the lights were still out, and Carson passed here, in a place with the least amount of foot traffic, and the rail just over there… It was a simple equation, but seemed to be much harder to execute. “Captain Lukas isn’t much of a people person, I don’t think.”

“Oh? Seems a weird choice to be the Captain of a ship then. Kind of his job to keep track of everything aboard. You know, I called Tad _captain_ the other day ‘cuz he seems to be the one actually running things.”

Oliver couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of reaction Tadeas might have had to that. Wait, no he could imagine it, actually. The first mate probably kept the same stony expression while he corrected Carson for his cock up. Oliver snorted without meaning to. “I’m sure Mr. Dahl gets that a lot from new crew.” 

Carson only grunted a wordless response, raising a gloved hand to pull at a mess of tangled and gnawed on wires, seemingly trying to sort the messed up ones apart from the ones that were still intact, but he seemed to be struggling, given that he still have to hold the torch with his other hand. This sparked an idea in Oliver’s head.

“Would you like help? I dunno much about wires and whatnot, but I know how to hold a torch.”

Carson arched a brow and looked like he was going to decline the offer out of courtesy, but then weighed his options. "Sure, yeah. Not busy, I take it?"

"Never am." Well, usually not. The only thing Oliver actually spent time doing was... well, in the three days he'd spent avoiding everyone, that had inadvertently extended to the Captain as well. "Is this good?" Oliver held the light just above the man's shoulder so it directly illuminated the inside of the panel.

"It's perfect, actually, thanks."

And so Carson set about his work, and Oliver let him focus for a few spare minutes, before he launched into a new topic of conversation. At first he just asked simple, curious questions. What tool is that? Why is that wire blue but then it turns green further down? What do you mean it's yellow, it's clearly not-- Oliver skipped around, asking Carson to expand on certain topics before switching to something else entirely different; all the while noticing how the man would pause in his work whenever he was asked a question that he seemed to deem worthy of his attention over the work he was doing.

Oliver wasn't sure how much time he managed to pass this way, but by the looks of the internal wiring, it didn't appear that Carson had managed to get much done before he started trying to hide his yawns behind his hand. "Getting tired? I 'magine it is rather late out."

"Sure is, yeah. But I got a lot of other stuff to do in the morning." Carson lamented.

And Oliver considered. "Well, you could always pick up where you left off tomorrow evening, then? And perhaps if I'm not busy I could even hold the torch for you again." _And proceed to distract you for as long as need be, and by then who cares if the light's fucked, you'll be dead, and I can tip you over the side and be done with your damn tendrils_. Although Oliver was beginning to suspect it was less about the tendrils, and more about the raging paranoia that if Carson passed and someone else noticed, they might just stop the ship.

And Oliver couldn't let that happen, not when he was so close to finally reaching Point Nemo.

"You know, I'm starting to get the feeling you don't want these lights fixed." Carson joked, and Oliver wasn't quick enough to hide his serious expression before Carson shifted to look over at him.

"If Mr. Dahl wants it fixed, then it'll be fixed, but I wouldn't consider him a cruel man that would have someone losing sleep over a couple of bummed lights."

Carson smirked, shrugging, but started to push himself back to his feet. Oliver moved back to give him space, and because the last thing he wanted was to accidentally get brushed by those damn tendrils that were crawling across the man's skin. "One night of lost sleep ain't nothing to cry over."

Oliver snorted, knowing all too well how much people took something like sleep for granted. He was honestly about to kill for the chance for just one night of sleep. That said, the torch he still held in his hand was ridiculously light weight, and it wasn't like Oliver was the type of person who worked out or anything.

"Can't help but wonder though... maybe your own insistence that I get some sleep might stem from the possibility that you might be having troubles with sleeping yourself." The man practically read his mind.

Oliver clicked the torch off, and held it out to him. "I may have the occasional bout of insomnia." Wasn't a total lie. Although how much of it was actually him not wanting to sleep, rather than actually being unable to... who's to say.

"Is that what's got you wandering around the back deck this late then? Can't sleep?"

"I'm fine, nothing I haven't gotten used to dealing with." Oliver replied.

Something about Carson's posture changed, Oliver had taken to leaning against the backside of the House, and now Carson was leaning an arm against the light pole, the other hand tucked into a pocket. "Well, I might have an idea or two that might help out."

Oliver immediately took the comment at face value, shaking his head. "I'm not sure it's something that's got a simple answer." Given that it wasn't that he didn't want to sleep, he just... It really wasn't as simple as that. And no amount of calming teas or breathing exercises could cure that.

Carson said, "most things in life ain't got simple answers, can't let it stop you from trying something fun, right?"

It wasn't until Oliver found himself comparing the man's tone with Kim's from many a night back that it finally clicked what was going on inside Carson's head and... oh dear, that's embarrassing. "Oh, I-- um..." He breathed out a nervous laugh, wrapping his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I'm, uh... Sort of already... Well, seeing someone aboard the ship..." 

Carson's expression implied he wasn't surprised, but that he also wasn't about to just leave the topic alone. "Must not be doing a good job if you got trouble sleeping."

"W-well, that's just... I mean, it's, um..." What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Carson moved in closer, a slow movement like he clearly wasn't about to do anything without some kind of warning first. "Besides, it's a big ship, and people don't seem to talk much, so if you're worried about word gettin' around..." His tone remained on the edge of playful, and serious. 

"Carson, I--" Oliver didn't really know what to say; obviously the answer was 'no.' But as the distance between them closed, Oliver found it increasingly more difficult to find his voice.

"Jim's fine." Carson offered when Oliver didn't continue speaking, the distance now closed with Carson leaning towards him with a hand against the back of the House, and the other resting against Oliver's hip. "I wouldn't do anything you don't want."

Oliver didn't doubt that, but... no. No, Oliver had to explain that this was an awkward display of miscommunication. Without considering the action first, Oliver stuck out a hand, pressing against Carson's chest with the intent of pushing him back, but immediately, Oliver could feel the tendrils beneath the man's shirt as they shifted beneath the thin material, seeming to thrum at his touch. He expected them to feel ice cold, to shock him into retracting his hand, but they weren't. They were warm and almost soft, spreading heat throughout his body and making him feel all tingly. It was such a unique feeling, that Oliver couldn't stop himself from pressing more firmly against the man's chest, feeling the tendrils writhe beneath his touch.

Carson on the other hand, swayed back on his feet, eyes fluttering as he managed a step back and got a grip on the light pole that seemed to be the only thing that kept him from falling over completely. He looked paler now, like all the colour had been drained from his face. "Wha--"

Oliver flattened himself back against the wall, retracting his hand the moment Carson had stepped far enough back to be out of arm's reach. "I- I need to go." Was all he said before taking off, possibly leaving Carson in a bad state, but he honestly wasn't bothered by that. Oliver didn't know what it was that had just happened, but he knew staying likely would've made the whole ordeal worse. It wasn't like he could give Carson any kind of explanation, not when he wasn't even certain of what had just happened.

Oliver entered the House, heading for the stairs and back towards his cabin. On the bright side, he was definitely feeling more awake now. Honestly, he was feeling _great_ ; and not even in that frantic second-wind adrenaline sort of way, he just felt… alive, almost? Seemed like a weird way to describe it, but… yeah.

So caught up in his own head, Oliver almost didn’t hear when his name was called; nearly making it to his door before realizing someone was trying to get his attention. Oliver turned, looking down the hall to see who was calling out for him.

It was the Captain, standing not too far from him; and actually.. It seemed like Oliver must have passed right by him without even noticing. “Antonio?”

Oliver blinked at him for a moment, curious about the almost concerned look in the Captain's eyes. "Hi."

"Hello..." Peter replied slowly, shifting slightly, obviously a little taken aback to even be seeing Oliver. Which was fair, probably. It wasn't like Oliver hadn't essentially been avoiding... everyone, without a single word as to why, so... a bit of a cold shoulder was expected. But that also meant that any conversation that might come up now would be awkward and probably forced, unless Oliver derailed it here and now with something just a touch unexpected.

"How're you feeling?" 

Peter gave him a look that seemed to be a cross between peaked curiosity and scorn. The Captain shifted his stance, crossing his arms over his chest, "I... I currently feel as though you've been avoiding me."

Oliver nodded slowly, moving over a few steps to lean against the wall, but not being quite so bold as to actually move closer to where Peter stood. "Alright, fair enough. I mean, I have been, so, yeah."

Peter's expression shifted into one of surprise; but whether this was because he hadn't expected an honest answer, or because he hadn't considered Oliver's avoidance might have been on purpose, Oliver couldn't say for sure. "Might I ask why?"

Oliver shrugged a shoulder, still keeping the same aloof expression on his face. "Wasn't really in the mood for company, I guess, dunno. Probably could've said something, but, well.... s' a bit late now, innit?"

Peter gave him an odd look, and Oliver wasn't quite sure how to describe it. It was a sort of fond, yet curious expression... Eventually he only nodded slowly, saying, "No, of course. A... heads up would have been appreciated, but I understand, entirely. I do have a ship to maintain besides."

"No harm, no foul, then?" Oliver quirked an eyebrow, brushing his fingers across the side of his neck as he spoke. It was weird, the tingle that had started in his palm now seemed to just be... everywhere, almost. This realization didn't really bother him though, the lingering sensation only being briefly acknowledged.

A soft smile turned the corner of Peter's mouth up as he moved in closer. There was only a moment where he seemed to pause, before saying, "Antonio, you're glowing."

Oliver tilted his head at the odd compliment. "Well, you don't look so bad yourself, sailor." 

The Captain gave him an odd look, before shaking his head slightly, reaching out and brushing his fingers against the hand Oliver had had against his own neck, moving it out of the way before just ever so slightly pushing back Oliver's shirt. Which, slow down there, they were still in the middle of the hall, right? Oliver looked down with a confused expression, and that's when he noticed why Peter had elected to use the word 'glowing', specifically. The mark across his skin was no longer just a smudged abrasion against his skin, but appeared to be, quite literally, glowing. It was pulsing with a soft orange-y red hue, and Oliver had no idea how he was going to explain it at all.

"I, uh... yeah, I've never seen it do that before, um... Birthmarks, y'know?"

Peter squinted at him, brow furrowed as he looked from Oliver, and back down at the mark, then to Oliver again, before tilting his head back as if weighing pros and cons in his head. Finally, he settled those beautiful blue eyes on Oliver once more. "So was it my cabin or yours?"

"Well, mine is right here, isn't it?" Oliver insinuated as he took the Captain by the hand and lead him back towards his door.

It took very little convincing to get Peter out of his clothes, less to get him over the bed; and from there things generally played out as usual. With the exception of Oliver's consistent verbal affections, whispered in a language he knew the Captain didn't understand. And yet, a deep blush was ever present as the intent was still obvious, even without the shared understanding. 

And when the conclusion was reached, they laid intertwined, neither leaving the bed as was the usual, but rather sharing in the afterglow. Finally, Oliver felt the calm call of sleep, and was ready to drift off into the long awaited slumber, but not before playfully whispering, "Stellen wir uns vor, ich sage etwas Romantisches."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Oliver placed a kiss against the side of Peter's neck, smiling as he remarked, "take a guess."

"Hm, I will not."

Oliver shifted, laying over the Captain's chest, looking up at the man with dropping eyelids. "Alright, guess you'll have to ask Mr. Dahl to give you lessons sometime then, eh?"

Peter's chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh, a hand tracing up Oliver's back, before trailing back down. "No, I don't think I'll be doing that either."

That was about the answer Oliver had been expecting. Which was fine, though he did have the hilarious mental image of Peter bumbling his way through a sentence in German, hoping to get a translation out of the first mate. "Probably for the best."

It was quiet in the room after that, and Oliver was just about to nod off when, when there was one last thing that caught his attention. Peter had shifted his head slightly, and in from the dim moonlight falling in through the cabin window, Oliver noticed something. Across his right temple, small lines that could've been veins for all Oliver knew, if it weren't for their colour. A soft red, scratching out from his hairline towards his right eye, so small that they would easily have been overlooked.

He shifted again, reaching up to trace the small marks across Peter's temple, and rousing the man enough that he opened his eyes, and then Oliver saw more of it. Bleeding across the white of his eye, swirling into the iris and all pointing towards his pupil. It was such a small thing, Oliver should've missed it entirely. 

But he was already half asleep, so instead of making mention of it, he rolled over to lay against Peter's side, deciding that if he noticed it the next morning, he could bring it up. Might just be a blood vessel or something, and Peter certainly didn't appear to be in any sort of pain. Clearly it could wait until morning; assuming Oliver would even remember by the time he awoke the next day.

\--- --- ---

The next morning came, or... it might've been afternoon, Oliver really wasn't sure. He knew he'd spent at least a few hours dreaming about the last few moments of Carson's life; which he knew would happen. But, rather than letting it actually get to him, he had decided to use those restless hours aboard his little dream-Tundra to his advantage. Thus, Oliver had successfully gotten a scope of the area where Carson would pass. Counted the steps between where Carson's body would be to the railing, checked around for where someone might stand, even checked the view from some of the windows out of the backside of the House. All around, it was a decent place where there were very few angles in which someone might see what would happen come evening.

Oliver assumed that all this dream-activity was the reason he was so tired when he finally woke up. The weight on his chest was concerning, though. Until he looked down and realized that the Captain of the ship was still laying on top of him, out like a light. A very heavy and stubborn light.

Taking as deep a breath as he could, he sighed, running his fingers through the white locks of hair on Peter's head. It was odd, now that he was actually looking, that around the roots, the hair seemed to be coming in darker, and for a moment, Oliver had the funniest image in his head that maybe Peter's hair actually hadn't gone white at a ridiculously young age, but that the man had simply been dying it a stark white for whatever reason. But no, it seemed far more likely that this was just another oddity about the man that was slowly coming awake on top of him. "Good morning," Oliver offered when Peter started to blink awake.

"Hmph." Peter made a discontent expression before burying his face against Oliver's chest again, letting out a long exhale like he was about to nod off again. Which, no.

"No, if you wanna sleep, that's fine, but I'd like to get up now, love." Oliver tried pushing the man off him, but Peter only seemed to play along for a second before falling back down on Oliver, wrapping his arms underneath of him and hugging Oliver closer. "No, Pete-- god, don't you have a job to be doing or something, _Captain_?"

Peter shifted, slipping down to lay against Oliver's side rather than on top of him, but instead of taking the side closest to the wall, he'd strategically lain on the farside, leaving Oliver between Peter and the wall, and thus without a means of escape. "No work, not until Tadeas comes knocking, and... well, I imagine he could be knocking awhile, given I have found myself in hiding outside of my own cabin."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "And you're that confident that he won't come knocking on my door if he's really looking to get a hold of you, eh?"

Peter's brow furrowed, before he opened his eyes, looking up at Oliver with a serious expression. "Do you... think he might... know?"

Honestly, Oliver was fairly certain the whole damn crew knew; but he didn't think Peter's delicate sensibilities could handle that answer, so he stuck to an abstract response. "I mean, he does have the cabin right next to yours, doesn't he?"

"Well, yes, but--"

" _And_ , you ain't exactly quiet, Pete."

Peter sat up, gaping down at him, looking entirely appalled. Honestly, Oliver assumed Peter was more than aware of something so terribly obvious. “Excuse me?”

Oliver shifted, pushing himself up so he was leaning back against the pillows, “it’s not a complaint or anything, Captain. Well, at least I’m not, can’t say the same for Mr. Dahl. Poor thing looked like he hadn’t slept a day in his life after… well, I’m sure you remember about a week back, when--”

“I’m sure I can easily recall which night you’re referring too, and that is hardly the point.”

“I mean… was there a point to any of this? Look, I just want to get up and take a shower. You can feel free to do whatever you please, preferably in the comfort of your own cabin, or wherever else suits your fancy.” Oliver tucked up his legs and scooted around Peter to slide off the bed.

“I-- are you kicking me out, Mr. Blake?”

Oliver was mid yawn, and turned back, looking down at Peter, who was still sitting pretty on the edge of the bed. “Well… not if you happen to want to join me in the shower?”

Peter gave him a tired smirk, but ultimately didn’t seem to be in such a mood. “I think I’ll have to pass for now.”

“Alright, understood.” He paused all of a second before adding, “Also yes, I am kicking you out then. Clothes on and out the door with you.” Oliver gestured to the door with his thumb before heading for his small ensuite bathroom. And when he returned, after taking a decent lengthened shower, he was pleasantly surprised to find his cabin empty. Admittedly, a part of him half expected Peter to hang around out of spite or something. But no, Oliver had his room to himself once more, and after making absolutely certain that his door was closed, he curled back up on his bed, wrapped himself up in all the blankets available, and willed himself to drift off, at least for a few more minutes. Apparently all of his distressed feelings towards sleeping had flowed away now, since he'd gotten some amount of rest through the night. And while Oliver still wasn’t exactly jazzed about watching Carson laying on the back deck, stuck in an eternal state of death, he was very much interested in getting as much rest as possible, considering he’d need some kind of energy if he was going to be able to lift the man’s dead weight over a railing by the coming evening.

\--- --- ---

It was by that very same evening that Oliver realized there was one small problem with his plan. Carson had clearly fixed the backlights, and so there was really no reason for the man to be anywhere near the back end of the ship at all. That being said... the tendrils were still there. A sliver small mass of them right beside the now closed panel for the lights. So he decided to wait. At first, in an effort to not seem suspicious, he walked around the entire outside of the ship once, then twice, then began to go for a third time, all the while the setting sun sank lower, and Oliver could feel his plan crumbling. 

But the tendrils were still there, so where was Carson? It seemed odd that the man would show up only seconds before his death for no reason, but as Oliver reached the backside of the ship again, watching the backlights flicker on, he had a new idea.

If the ship wouldn't just spontaneously accommodate his requirements, he would just have to... help it along. The panel to the lights' wiring wasn't locked with anything more than a few latches that could be easily twisted around to reveal the inner workings of the panel. With it open in front of him, Oliver cast his gaze from side to side, before looking up, making sure that there were no lights on in the back windows, or anyone peering out. When he was certain there was no one that could possibly see him, he hooked a finger around a few of the wires and pulled. A few popped right out, hanging loosely, while others had strained against the intrusion. But of the few that had come loose, it seemed to have been enough to make the bulbs above him flicker out. 

Obviously, Oliver couldn't be sure if this would be enough; after all, what were the chances that this might bring someone else to investigate instead? He had no idea, but at least it was something that would soothe the surfacing panic. A few more laps around the deck, and then maybe, if need be, he could act like he stumbled across the darkened light while just on a leisurely stroll, maybe even say something along the lines of, _"really, I thought that Carson guy had fixed it, but I guess not. Maybe he missed something?"_ And Oliver couldn't think of anyone that might volunteer to try and fix someone else's mistake. 

By his sixth lap, heading towards the back once more, he heard one of the side doors of the House swinging open, before closing with a dull thud. And by now, the sun had gone down entirely, so Oliver had no problem sticking close to the side of the ship where the shadows were thickest, and followed after whoever had come to investigate the busted light.

And just as Lady Luck would have it, Carson was flashing his torch at the closed panel, getting down on one knee to pop it open and take a look at the damage. _Finally_.

"Well, what's going on here, eh?" The man scratched his head, poking at the wires that had obviously been plucked out rather than chewed up like before. 

But it wasn't like it mattered what Carson concluded about the damage, because he wasn't going to be around for much longer. Although, with the way the night had been going so far, Oliver was beginning to wonder if the man would ever die.

Oliver's eyes narrowed a few minutes later when the lights turned back on and Carson closed up the panel, rubbing a palm against his chest. "Should do it."

It wasn't panic that Oliver felt now, as he watched Carson slowly get back to his feet, so much as agitation. Hadn't he done enough already? And given how the last conversation with the man had gone, he couldn't imagine what could possibly happen this time around. He swallowed a curse, taking a few steps back before moving to the side so he was at the center of the walkway before heading towards Carson at a casual pace.

Carson had only just begun turning away from the panel when Oliver rounded the corner, and thus, jumped at the sudden appearance of another person. "Lord, you nearly gave me a heart attack." It seemed to take him a moment to recognize Oliver, who naturally paused, pressing his hands together in front of him and casting his gaze idly to the side; trying so hard to remember how he would act if he had normally just bumped into someone. "Oh, Antonio, a bit of a surprise seeing you out here."

"I could say the same-- I- was the light acting up again?" Oliver tilted his head, looking at the pole that Carson seemed to be now leaning a great deal of his weight against.

"Uh, yeah. Funny you should ask, looked like it might've been on purpose this time."

Oliver frowned, "that's weird." Like so weird. Like, _how would that even happen_ , weird.

Carson nodded, but seemed at a loss as to what to say next, and so the hell was Oliver. He could notice the signs now, the way the tendrils were flexing erratically on the man's skin, and how the other tendrils at his feet seemed to be wrapping up around his boots. "So what brings you out here?"

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, trying to tear his eyes away from the man's feet; and when he finally did, he looked around, trying to be certain that no one was about. Didn't help that Carson had fixed the lights now, too. Anyone looking out the back windows of the House could likely see them now. "I was looking for you, actually. I, um. I'm the one that, uh, sabotaged the lights, too."

Carson frowned, "why?"

"Well, it's a difficult thing to explain..." The man was going to die, so really, Oliver could say whatever the hell he wanted, as long as it kept him in this vague area. Or maybe just a little more to the left where the shadows were a bit darker? God, did it really matter anymore?

"Uh huh." Carson shifted, but didn't seem like he was about to go anywhere any time soon. "Well, I've definitely met a few people who play hard to get, but this might be a whole new level. Kind of dig it though."

Oliver clapped his hands together, "Nope! Different thing; very, very different thing." Christ, was it a sailor thing to always be _on_ all the time? "You're dying, James Carson. Been having a lot of chest pain lately? Maybe some unexplained numbness in your arms? Well, let me be the one to tell you, it's a heart attack! Or, fuck, maybe it's a stroke, I'm not a doctor, but you are going to die, so if you could maybe slide over to the rail over there to make things easier on me, that would be lovely."

Carson blinked at him, his face a cross between disbelief and budding realization that Oliver could be right. "I-- Is this, like a joke? Cuz I'm the new guy or something, I..." Carson had to pause, pressing a hand against this chest, breathing becoming shaky and laboured. "That can't be..."

"Ah, finally. Scooch over a bit, will you?" Oliver gave Carson a gentle push around the midsection and the man tumbled back against the nearby wall, eyes widening with fear as he kept massaging his own chest. "If I pluck out this blue one, lights go out, yeah?"

Carson gave him an incredulous look. "Why are you doing this?" His legs were faltering and he slid down the wall, one leg flopping out and foot landing in the mess of tendrils that Oliver had narrowly been avoiding to get a peek into the panel.

"I'm not doing anything, Jimmy, it's your body that's giving out, I'm just not doing anything to stop that from happening." When he first saw Carson aboard the ship, knowing it was a heart attack, Oliver had gone to Tadeas, asking leading questions about what sort of medical equipment they had aboard the ship; and he was soon to find out that they were not at all equipped to help someone like Carson. Thus, this plan came to fruition shortly thereafter. "Pulling out the blue wire now, hope that doesn't ruin anything." 

The lights above him went out, and when Oliver looked up, he was content to find that none of the windows along the back of the House had any lights on within them either. Mostly just drawn curtains actually. "But... but if you knew, you..." His words were slurring, eyelids fluttering, his chest beginning to spasm.

"Don't really work that way, sorry! And, you know, I've been just, _dying_ , to reach Point Nemo for too damn long to let someone stop me now. And I know I sort of just said I'm sorry, but I'm really not." Oliver was squatting down not too far from Carson as he spoke, keeping his voice down, but still light and airy. "Just let it happen, Jimmy. It's easier that way, innit?"

The man's mouth was moving, but Oliver couldn't make out the words, so he just stood back up, and turned away from the man to let him have his last moments in peace. Though, Oliver actually doubted that was how Carson saw it. Oh well, c'est la vie. Or... c'est la morte? Nah, that didn't sound right.

Oliver kept his eyes focused on the sea, but stayed sharp for any noise that might come from someone other than the dying man behind him. Obviously, Carson was too far gone by now to make any noise that might alert anyone that wasn't already in the vicinity, so Oliver was content with waiting. He certainly had no intentions of exacerbating the situation by throwing Carson overboard while he was still alive; that just seemed cruel.

Minutes passed, until Oliver wasn't actually sure how long he'd been standing there, watching the ship's water trail that sent little waves across the ocean’s surface. When he did finally turn back, it was clear that Carson had attempted to move from his last position, now lying face down, with a hand outstretched and just shy of Oliver's ankle. What a shame. Using up the last of his energy on a lost cause like that.

Oliver poked the body with the toe of his shoe; gently, of course. But already, Oliver could see the way the tendrils were no longer pulsing erratically, and now laid still against the corpse. Thus came the difficult part of getting the body not only over to the railing, but also quite literally _over_ said railing. 

It really was easier said than done, considering Carson wasn't a light man, and it wasn't like he was going to help out or anything as Oliver grabbed the body by the wrists and drug it across the deck towards the railing. He paused for a moment once there, catching his breath while trying to figure out if there might be some way to lift the body without touching the tendrils. Upon realizing there really wasn't such a way, Oliver shrugged, deciding a few minutes of contact wouldn't be so bad if it meant the ship kept churning on towards Point Nemo.

Oliver said nothing as he got the body up, teetering for a moment on the railing, before giving one final shove and sending it over into the water. Oliver waited for the faint splash before finally allowing himself to relax, leaning his weight against the railing and letting out a long sigh. A few concerning thoughts skittered across his mind, but he was quick to dismiss them. Had this all been just a little too easy? Probably, but he certainly wasn't about to complain.

Although, there was the concerning fact that as he stared out over the water, he could clearly see where Carson's body had resurfaced and was now floating gently in the water, swayed by the ship’s water trail from the ship's turbines. Maybe he should've... weighted it? Or something. A bit late for it now, but... Ah well. Not like there was anyone else about, and by the time the ship turned back around-- and that was even assuming it would-- between the ocean’s current, and the water trail from the ship itself, the body would likely float miles away from this exact spot anyways. or… well, there was probably something about that was either carnivorous or omnivorous enough to enjoy it as a meal too.

Oliver shivered at the thought, now deciding that he really wasn't going to think about it. He shifted, turning his back to the water, and froze. Across from where he stood, was a person. This person wasn't looking at him, but was bent at the waist, peeking into the wire box of the lights, poking at it with a finger, but not doing much more than that. As if knowing they were being watched, the person turned, standing up right and looking over at Oliver with an expression mixed with curiosity and obliviousness. "Seems to be an issue with your lights."

Oliver blinked, staring at the man with a perplexed expression of his own. "Who the fuck are you?"

A look of surprise crossed the man's face before his brow furrowed and he gave the smallest, questioning tilt of his head, a movement that was so vaguely familiar that it made Oliver tense. "Well, you certainly have the language of a sailor, don't you?"

"I--" Oliver didn't know what to say. There was just something so bizarre about the man, more specifically the way he was dressed, which made it clear he was not from the ship. The first thing that stood out were the pair of aviator goggles hanging around his neck, then underneath that was a thin blue scarf, which Oliver had to admit did look rather fetchingly draped. Aside from that, he was wearing a brown jacket over a loose fitting button up, and all and all, looked like he'd stepped out of a photo from the 19-fucking-30's. "How long have you just been... standing here?" Oliver prided himself the fact that he didn't sound like he was trying to hide anything, merely sounding surprised to find some stranger poking around the ship.

"Oh, not terribly long, I was just hoping to get this fixed up so I might have a spotlight before introducing myself. Sad isn't it, that I haven't a clue what any of this is all about." The man waved an idle hand at the wires.

Oliver looked from the outlet, to the man, then back at the outlet. Then sighed, and shooed the man aside. With him out of the way, Oliver fixed the blue wire back into place, waiting for the lights above them to flicker back on before latching the panel's cover in place. "Happy now?"

"Oh, little starlight, I'm always happy; after all, life is simply too long to bother wasting energy on negative emotions, you know?"

"I-- whatever, there's your spotlight, so could you please tell me who you are? And how you're even here?" Oliver asked when he turned back around to face the man.

"Well, to your second question, let's just say I happened to be in the area, and thought I'd drop in for a bit of a visit. I--"

"You just happened to be in the middle of the Pacific? You have a boat then? Or... seaplane, perhaps?" Oliver gestured to the man's getup.

But the man only laughed, "oh hardly. I don't have much of a need for such things, I assure you." He sighed, running his hands through his hair before giving them a shake, small droplets of water spraying off his fingertips. Which... nope. Oliver was not going to even... no, nope! It was a bit odd that the man's hair did seem to be damp, whereas the rest of him was certainly dry but... no, Oliver wasn't going to think about it. Just gonna ignore that, he told himself.

"Yeah, alright. Continue?"

"Yes, of course." The man then cleared his throat, placing his hand against his chest and bowing slightly at the waist in some overly formal manner of greeting. "Laurence Lukas, at your service."

Everything clicked into place the moment the man made eye contact with Oliver, and with the light now one above them, Oliver could immediately place the eerie blue of the man's eyes. Or… eye? The one on the left definitely had that same stark shade of blue, but… the other was actually a deep mocha brown, almost black in the dim lighting. "Laure-- _you're_ Peter's uncle? You're that Laurence?"

Oliver's immediate connection seemed to surprise him, as he blinked a few times before replying. "Why yes, the very same. I must say, I'm quite surprised to find out my nephew speaks of me to his crew."

"Oh, I'm not part of the crew," Oliver corrected him before really thinking about how that might come off. And by the time his mind caught up with his mouth, it was a bit too late. _Think_ first, _then_ speak.

" _Oh_." Laurence arched a brow, giving Oliver a curious look. "Wait, you're not one of Elaina’s are you? Or, no… it's… Something else with an E now, isn't it? Goodness, I’ve quite forgotten what they go by these days. The Institute-- you aren’t from there are you?”

"Um, no? I’m, uh, I’m a marine biologist from… from a University...?"

"Is that right? Well, that's interesting too, I suppose. Wouldn’t happen to have a name, too, would you?"

Oliver paused before answering, still reeling at the fact that this man, who didn't look more than mid-forties at most, was somehow Peter's uncle. Which wouldn’t have been that weird, if only Oliver didn't have this feeling like he knew something, something that would make it obvious that Laurence should be at least a decade or two older than he appeared. Probably better not to linger on it. “Um, I, uh… I’m Antonio, Antonio Blake.” And social niceties being what they were, Oliver stuck out a hand too.

Laurence eyed the gesture, before seeming to have to put great effort into obliging. “My, you’ve got some cold hands, don’t you?” He commented, pulling his hand away after a single firm shake, tucking them away into the pockets of his jacket. “Terribly sorry, I was able to correct so many things about myself after I took off from the Family, but… hm, contact is still a bit… difficult.” He added, even seeming to take a small step back. 

Oliver didn't really like how Laurence talked about " _the Family_ ", made it sound like some sort of mafia business. Although, for all Oliver knew, this could be exactly what the Lukas Family was about. Might actually explain a few things, if so. "Um, right… so… I guess you're here to see the Captain, then, yeah?"

"That would very much be the case, yes." Laurence said, but made no move to leave.

Oliver shifted awkwardly under the man's curious gaze, even clearing his throat and tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Well... off you go then?"

Laurence offered a tight lip smile, before sighing. "Yes, of course, but... well, you seem like a lovely fellow, but... there is just something about you, you know? And far be it from me to do anything impulsive, but... well, I really must ask something of you regardless."

Oliver didn't like the sound of that; any of that, and even began stepping back when he noticed Laurence stepping in closer. "Hey there, what happened to the personal space bit, eh?" 

Laurence sighed again, stopping just an inch or two from where Oliver was trying ever so casually to lean back and away from the taller man. "Would you mind counting the stars for me? Just ever so quickly, how many stars do you think are up there right now?"

"What?" Without really processing the request, Oliver tilted his head back and squinted at the night sky; and soon found himself unable to look away. The stars seemed so bright all of sudden, and the sky stretched beyond his field of vision to the point that it shouldn't have been possible. To count all those far-off twinkling lights would have been impossible. Oliver stepped back, and the sky seemed to widen above him, curving down until even out of the corner of his eyes he could see tiny twinkling lights of far off suns, burning brightly thousands upon thousands of light years away. _They say that most of the stars you see in the sky could be long dead, but because of how far away they are you wouldn't see it happen for a millennia._

Oliver stepped back too far, or perhaps just far enough? He knew in an instant that he was standing over the same spot Carson had passed, where the tendrils still took root, and seemed to thrum at his presence. Oliver's eyes snapped back down, landing on the man standing in front of him. "More than 20, that's my best guess."

Laurence's mouth opened, but no words seemed able to come out. Whatever... spell, or whatever that had come over Oliver had shattered the moment he felt those tendrils around his ankle; but that wasn't something that Laurence could see, nor likely ever would. "Now hang on a second, how did you--"

Oliver coughed awkwardly, using that to give himself time to find a bit of balance and think of a response. "Hm? Sorry, not sure I know what you mean. Um... You still wanted to talk to the Captain, didn't you?"

Laurence gave another curious look, but nodded slowly. "Yes, if you could be so kind as to show me the way, perhaps?"

“I mean, sure. He’s probably in his cabin, so that’ll be this way.” Oliver didn’t bother considering that it was weird that Laurence wouldn’t know the way, since he seemed to have some familiarity with the ship already; but… you know, whatever. The night had already pretty much gone to hell in a handbasket, this was just… it was whatever, Oliver didn’t want to think about it.

Naturally, he was unsettled by what had happened out on the back deck, but once he went inside of the House with Laurence at his heel, he felt a bit calmer having a roof and multiple floors between himself and the vast starry night above. It was probably just the lack of sleep making everything seem so much more bizarre than what it was. It wasn't like a one night of average rest would undo three (or was it four?) days without proper sleep.

Besides, there was almost definitely a reasonable explanation for everything. "Well, there you are,” Oliver only stopped when they reached Peter’s cabin door, gesturing to it, before making it clear he had no intentions of staying. “Have a nice chat, I’ll be going.”

“Oh, please, Antonio; I know I haven’t been the best of company so far; in fact, I’ve been rather rude, I do admit, but… well, an interesting fellow such as yourself must have quite the presence, so if I might just borrow it for a moment. I’d quite like to surprise my nephew, and that’s hard to do if he knows I’m already here.”

“You want to borrow my what?” Oliver started, but Laurence had already gripped him gently by the elbow and pulled him over to stand between Laurence and the Captain’s door.

“Give a knock, will you, please?” Laurence asked, standing stiffly behind Oliver, and retracting his hands to tuck them back into his jacket pockets.

“This seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through just for a seconds’ worth of surprise.” Oliver said, mimicking Laurence’s hushed tone, but he still knocked on the door. Honestly, he expected to hear Peter’s voice calling from within that the door was unlocked.

“I’m inclined to agree, but alas, I’ve already committed.” Laurence managed to say just before the door knob turned, the door was pulled open from within. 

Immediately, Peter was glaring out from the other side, eyes fixed directly on Laurence, and he seemed to not even notice Oliver standing there. “Laurence. What are you doing on my ship?”

Oliver peeked over his shoulder to see a speechless Laurence, blinking in brief confusion, that is before Laurence looked down at Oliver with mock contempt. “Well, I see I’ve overestimated you, Mr. Blake, as you clearly have been of little help here.”

Laurence’s tone seemed reminiscent of a tease, so Oliver took it as such, shrugging theatrically, “Don't remember making any promises, Larry, this is all on you.” 

“ _Larry?_ Why, only my sister has ever called me that. You know, Pete, I may have to take this one off your hands, no doubt his stellar sense of humour is likely going to waste aboard your ship.”

Oliver thought that was a funny comment, but before he could bring himself to laugh at it, he noticed the way Peter was glaring with pure contempt at his own uncle. Which… made Oliver second guess what kind of situation he might have just found himself in. “Well, this has been fun, but, uh… I’m gonna go now, yeah? Yeah.”

“Must you? I fear the moment you’re out of sight, my little nephew here might just tear me to pieces, why is that?” Laurence turned his attention back to Peter, and, yeah, if looks could kill, Laurence would be dead twenty times over by now. _Yikes_.

“Why are you here, Laurence?” Peter asked, this time more firmly, while also reaching out and lacing an arm through one of Oliver’s and pulling him slowly into the room; as if he did it too quickly, Laurence might stop him or something. Meanwhile, Oliver just kind of gave him a weird look while being guided into the room before Peter shifted, now standing between Oliver and Laurence, who was deeply confused by this but figured asking questions probably wouldn’t yield any worthwhile answers.

Laurence _obviously_ noticed all of this, but didn’t actually comment on it, merely sported an amused expression as he finally answered his nephew’s question. “Well, I happened to be in the area, and since there’s a family gathering coming up, I thought I’d be the one to give you a, heads up, as they say.”

“When?”

“Hm? Oh, I think the week after next. Percy is the one taking care of the details for this one, so expect it to be sooner rather than later; you know how she is with these things.”

Oliver could see Peter nodding his head firmly, before reaching for the door. “Well, thank you for the message, I assume you’ll be on your way then, yes?”

Laurence seemed to finally let his gleeful air of contentment go, shifting his position and adopting a much more serious posture and tone of voice. “No, actually. If you wouldn’t mind letting Antonio go for a moment, I’d quite like to have a private word with you.”

“What about?”

“Well, it won’t be _private_ if I go saying anything while standing in the middle of the hall.”

“If it’s really to be such a big deal, then perhaps it can wait until my ship makes port again.”

“Peter--”

Peter clearly wasn't having any of this from his uncle, and Oliver couldn't blame him. Laurence should leave, after all. What reason could he possibly have to stay? Oliver certainly had no reason to say anything, and if he did it would only be to agree with the Captain, to send Laurence on his merry way. But clearly the Captain appeared hesitant as Laurence still tried to make his case, so it seemed up to Oliver to tip the scales, a two on one would certainly make things go smoother. And wouldn't it be nice if Laurence left? 

Oliver frowned as the thought seemed to repeat itself. _Wouldn't that be nice? Just ditch the third wheel and have a nice night in with the Captain? A long, even fun, night in. Wouldn't that be nice?_

"Captain," Oliver reached up and placed a hand against Peter’s shoulder, drawing his attention down to him. It took Oliver a moment before he managed to clear his throat, and say, “Captain, you’re being terribly rude to your uncle, don’t you think? It can’t have been an easy journey, after all, following after us without even a boat; clearly he’s got something more important to say, right?” This was clearly none of this was his business, but that thought... It felt so out of place in his mind, he couldn't help but do the exact opposite of what it was asking of him.

Plus, there was something nice about how Peter turned to give Oliver his full attention, some of that tension seeming to leave the man’s body. But Oliver's attention was split, as he noticed a chubby little spider racing across the side of his arm, darting off his sleeve and across the Captain's back, before disappearing over the man's other shoulder. But before Oliver could make mention of this, Peter had turned, cupping Oliver’s face with one hand, bringing his attention back to the Captain. “Um, hello?” He arched a brow as Peter was looking just a little too deeply into his eyes for Oliver's comfort, given that there was someone else also standing in the vicinity.

Peter’s brow seemed furrowed in anger, before he exhaled slowly, face returning to a calm and overly stoic expression. He stepped back, moving out of Oliver’s way so he could easily leave the room. “Right, Antonio if you wouldn’t mind? There are a few things my uncle and I need to talk about.” 

Oliver was slightly taken aback by the shift in atmosphere, but nodded silently, slipping out of the room, and a moment later, Laurence took his place within the room, drifting more slowly, and looking as though he might have made some sort of mistake by choosing to stick around. But before Oliver could pick up much more on that, Peter was standing in the doorway again, facing him. “Well, have a good chat, I guess?”

“It isn’t likely to be a very long one.” Was all Peter said before closing the door with a gentle click.

Oliver just nodded to himself, accepted that this, like most things lately, wasn’t really any of his business, and headed off towards his own cabin. It was just as he was opening his own door that he heard a loud crash from Peter’s cabin. He took a single moment to just stand there, not even looking back towards the closed door, before taking a breath, and heading into his room. 

Oliver felt it was about time he took a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: minor character death, canon typical descriptions of death, the Vast makes another appearance, this time a bit more... physically? Certainly taller this time. Our chubby little spider friend is back too.


	11. VIII. Not Far to Point Nemo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it says on the tin; not far now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

Laurence seemed to be too indecisive about choosing a seat to take, and so stood looking back and forth between the two chairs before turning his attention to Peter, "you know I do love what you've done with the place, it's very..."

Peter didn't wait for Laurence to finish, instead, taking this opportunity to close the distance while raising a hand before bringing the flat of his palm down against the side of his uncle's face, making for a very satisfying smack sound that left his palm tingling. Laurence teetered back, slamming into the side table before falling against one of the chairs with a look of incredible surprise. An empty mug fell from the table and shattered on the floor between them. Peter didn't bother waiting for his uncle to collect himself before speaking. "You seem to have forgotten that you are aboard my ship, Laurence."

"I assure you, I am perfectly aware that I am--"

"You put a mark on him."

Laurence looked at him with a seriousness that so rarely crossed his face. "Yes, well. I thought it would look quite fetching with the little spots of white in his hair-- no doubt those are courtesy of you." Laurence pressed the back of his own hand against the corner of his lip, looking down at the thin streak of blood from where his lip had split. "Curious, never took you as the type to play with your food." He started, continuing once he'd met Peter's gaze again. "But perhaps that's because you're having trouble digesting this one."

Peter shrugged off Laurence's curious gaze, lowering himself into the empty chair. "I don't see how any of this would be your business."

"Perhaps not," Laurence began, pulling himself up to sit properly in the chair he'd fallen against. "But I had every intention of turning that young man into a meal, so imagine my surprise when in less than a minute, he pulls himself out of it, and walks it off like nothing happened."

Peter slouched a bit in his chair, somehow already expecting that little tidbit. "So you didn't just happen to let him go, then."

Laurence's gaze narrowed on him. "You don't sound surprised by this, so am I to assume you have knowingly allowed the interest of another power aboard your ship? I can't imagine what must have been going through that stupid head of yours, Peter."

"I didn't know." Peter looked away, hating how Laurence was making him feel like a child, being scolded for doing something bad.

"That is just a little too difficult to believe. After all, I barely spent a few minutes in his company and even I noticed the mark, it isn't exactly small, Peter. And it's even harder to miss when it starts lighting up like someone cracked a glowstick."

"That didn't start happening until Colón." Peter retorted as if it would be the perfect defense, but Laurence only looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"You do see how that is worse, then, don't you? When someone is an interest to these powers, it only goes one of two ways; said power destroys them, and usually everything else in the vicinity, or it consumes them, while also wrecking some level of havoc. And you just let him aboard your ship? If you noticed this change in Colón, why is he still on your ship? I certainly like to think I taught you better than this."

There was nothing Peter could exactly say to that, and merely continued to avoid eye contact. Obviously, to Laurence, coming in from the outside, the whole thing looked a great deal more... complicated, and possibly disastrous, than it really was. And as the days had passed, Peter had found himself more and more caught up in the need to see this through, to reach Point Nemo, regardless of what was happening aboard the ship. He couldn't explain it, and it seemed that every time he stopped to really consider any of it… his thoughts would escape him as if plucked from his very mind. Following this, there would always be something else that required his attention, however.

But it wasn't like he could explain it like that to his uncle without having the man beraid him for it. "It's more complicated than that."

When he finally met his uncle's eye again, Laurence looked thoroughly unconvinced, before looking suspicious for a moment, giving Peter a once over. Eventually, Laurence seemed to come to his own conclusion, reclining back into his chair and rubbing a hand against his forehead. "Stars above, Pete, you are too predictable for your own good."

"I beg your pardon."

Laurence gave him a tired look, before speaking as though he were imparting some great wisdom. "Just because you meet a person who appears mildly interesting, doesn't mean you have to fuck them."

Peter scowled, shifting back in his seat, and nearly placing a hand over his chest. "Laurence, what could possibly-"

Laurence cut him off, as he began numbering off a few names, even sticking up a few fingers as he rattled them off. "Lynn, Addy, Marigold– or whatever her name was— then there was that odd fellow from the Institute, before you moved on to whoever became the Director—"

"Elias."

"Right, sure, Elias, and then the Director of the Institute, etcetera, etcetera."

"No, uncle, those... the same person... sort of."

Laurence made a slightly nauseous expression. "And to think you are still the Family-Favourite," he lamented. "Whatever, I've more than made my point, I suppose... At least tell me you know which power it is that's properly marked this Antonio Blake fellow. Clearly it isn't the Vast, nor the Lonely, so which is it?"

Peter was still trying to regain his pride at this point, and honestly didn't even want to start in on this topic now. But if it would save him from further defamation from his uncle, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to delve into it; besides, Laurence had been around far longer than Peter had, perhaps he might have noticed something, and together they might be able to figure it out? "I don't know." He admitted, and yet again, Laurence was staring at him like he'd lost his mind. "You're right, it isn't the Lonely, or the Vast, but... I can only tell you some of the other one's that he likely  _ isn't  _ marked by..."

Clearly out of his depth, Laurence gave this suggestion, "why not simply ask him then?"

Peter shook his head, waving away the suggestion. "I don't believe he knows. I'm not sure if it's due to him naturally being clueless, or if the Entity that preys on him wants it that way." Peter also found himself acutely aware that whichever Entity it was, it was an old one; and strong, given that it was able to rip Antonio right out of the Lonely not once, but possibly twice. But that didn’t narrow it down much, given how many of the Fears had plagued humanity since the beginning of it all.

When he looked at Laurence, his uncle had an expression like he knew something, but didn’t seem to want to share it. “Have you considered he might be stalked by the Beholding?”

Peter had considered that, but Antonio had too many inconsistencies in his habits. He had a level of curiosity to him, but seemed to lack the desire to ever actually get the answers. But Laurence couldn’t have spent much time with the passenger, so Peter wanted to know why he would come to such a conclusion. “I don’t believe so, no. But what makes you suspect?”

Laurence only shrugged, “nothing in particular, you just seem to have a type, so I thought I’d just put that out there.”

This response did not please Peter in the slightest; the comment nearly brought the conversation back around to the previous topic. “Clearly, you are mistaken.” Besides, the Eye rarely went out of its way to do much of anything. No, usually when something Eye-related did happen, it was one of its little servants screwing around, rather than the Entity itself. And Peter had always categorized the Eye as being more of a support Entity, using the other fears to its own advantage rather than doing much of anything itself.

"Have you ever heard of the Extinction?" Peter asked tentatively, after a few moments of silence.

Laurence's face pinched, "what, like the dinosaurs?"

Peter waved a hand, "not quite. It's... something of a new one. An emerging fear, and... well no one seems actually certain of how real it might actually be but..." Peter let himself consider this for a moment. While he had the inclination to believe Antonio was being marked by an older fear, maybe it was the opposite? Peter had always taken for granted certain things, made up rules that he assumed all of the Entities and their kin would follow, but the Extinction... conversations with Adelard Dekker skirted across his mind. If it was growing to become a true power in its own right, and bring with it a Great Change, it didn't seem entirely implausible that it would make such a bold move as to reach into the domain of another Entity. And there was still that lingering belief that Point Nemo had some role to play in Antonio's journey with whatever Fear that had its claws in him. Antonio was set on heading out to place that was known for supposedly being incapable of supporting life, but the Entities weren't exactly known for following the ways of the world, so what were the odds that there was something out there, something born of a growing power, and that same growing power was leading Antonio right to it because... 

Well, it all seemed terribly complicated, and a long shot besides, but... "I feel like any of the 14 would have made themselves known by now. But Antonio is..."  _ complicated in the simplest ways. _

"Hm. Well, logical debates are hardly our forte, Pete. Perhaps you could give Aunt Percy a call? I imagine she'd have far more to offer on the matter."

Peter leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest; a habit he might've picked up from Antonio, but he would never admit it. "I am inclined to somewhat agree, Uncle. Though to be honest, I hardly think it matters. Antonio has shown no sign of contempt for the ship or Her crew, so, regardless of what you may think, I personally don't believe him to be a danger to anyone here. It's likely that whatever is stalking him, isn't interested in having its way with the Tundra, at the very least." Laurence made a face as if he wouldn’t agree with such a statement, and Peter narrowed his eyes. “Something to share, uncle?”

“Hm? What might give you that impression?” While the atmosphere in the room had certainly settled, Peter was not above giving Laurence another smack. Laurence seemed to become aware of this when he cleared his throat and settled back into his chair. “Well… I may have witnessed something ever so curious, you know, before I got the chance to announce myself to the young fellow and… well, I can’t quite say for sure what it is that I saw, so perhaps it was nothing…”

Peter waited a few moments for Laurence to elaborate, when he did not, Peter sat back, crossing one leg over the other and gestured with one hand for Laurence to continue. “Enlighten me.”

Laurence still appeared hesitant, but in the way that made Peter fairly certain it was all for show. "Fine, where to begin, then?” Laurence paused for a moment, but didn’t need to be goaded a second time into saying his peace. “Well, seeing as it is rather late in the evening, obviously I was not expecting anyone to be about, and yet as I came aboard, I happened to see the most peculiar thing out on the back deck. Now, it was rather dark as well, so I could not quite make out who it was or what they were doing, but they did appear to be struggling a bit. Up until they were not, and I heard the faintest sound of a rather large splash of something hitting the water." Laurence paused again, this time clearly waiting for Peter to come to his own conclusions, but Peter did no such thing, leaving Laurence with no choice but to continue instead. “Naturally, I come to find out that this mysterious individual is Antonio Blake, a mere passenger aboard your ship, and apparently with no ties to the Institute, which also seemed a bit odd. Whatever could you, my darling nephew, be doing out in the middle of the south Pacific with a  _ passenger _ ? And what exactly was this passenger throwing over the side of your ship in the dead of night?”

Peter considered the two questions, before deciding to completely ignore the last one entirely. “Antonio Blake is a marine biologist with an interest in studying Point Nemo.”

Laurence looked contemplative, clearly weighing that information in mind before replying. “And why would a marine biologist be aboard your ship? Why not a vessel that’s designed for such research?”

“His university wouldn’t fund an expedition, so he’s outsourcing. I’ve had similar requests before.” Though he’d never taken anyone up on them previously. Mostly because it was usual an unaligned team of researchers with some amount of influence that… simply would’ve been more trouble than anything else.

Peter expected Laurence to bring such things up, but instead he asked, “and  _ which _ university did he say he was with?”

“He didn’t. I assume for posterity reasons, as when his university is brought up, he doesn’t sound particularly fond of them.”

Laurence nodded slowly, before getting to his feet. “You assume a lot of things about this man, don’t you, Pete?” 

The question sounded rhetorical, so Peter didn’t respond to it, instead looping back to something else Laurence had said. “What do you believe was being thrown over the side of my ship?”

Laurence sighed, clearly getting ready to make his exit. “Hard to say, given that the back lights appeared to have been tampered with specifically so there was no way of seeing anything clearly, but it certainly looked large and heavy. And no doubt if I saw fit to take a look along the ship’s water trail, I might find something floating out on the ocean. But with currents being what they are, seems like a dreadful waste of my time.”

Peter felt… uncertain. Like there was a weight against his chest, but he couldn’t quite describe why, what it meant. “Why did you come here tonight, Laurence?”

“Hm? What, can’t a man visit his nephew? Do a bit of catching up after years without even a simple letter?”

“Laurence, you may serve the Falling Titan, but you are still a Lukas, through and through; and no amount of distance in the world can change that.” Peter reminded his uncle, who seemed all too quick in pretending he hadn’t had the exact same upbringing as Peter; possibly one that was even worse, given the sparse few oddities that prevailed upon Laurence’s character. After all, he could certainly take a hit like he’d been born for it, but a comforting pat on the back, you’d think he was made of glass about to shatter.

Laurence offered a tight lip smile, looking down at himself and patting at his pockets, as if looking for some sort of distraction. “Well… I did mention the upcoming funeral, yes? Percy’s planning it, and you know how she is about details. You really ought to give her a call, perhaps. Although, I imagine she may be calling you with the specifics soon enough.” He added, now heading for the door, clearly no longer having anything more to say to his nephew.

"I have a new phone now." Peter replied idly as he sat back into his chair, all this nonsense with his uncle finally beginning to take its toll on him.

"And when has that ever stopped my sister before?" Was the last thing Laurence said before the door clicked to a close.

Peter exhaled a heavy sigh when he was finally alone in his cabin again. While Peter truly did hate phones, if all Laurence had needed to tell him was about a funeral it easily could have been summed up in a simple phone call— or hell, even one of those little text messagings. And it wouldn't have come with this budding concern in regards to the Tundra's passenger.

What was he even supposed to do with these concerns? Confront Antonio? Ask him if he's killed one of the crew? It was an entirely ridiculous notion, yet seemed to be exactly what his uncle had been alluding to. 

And if he let his doubts fester, that surely wouldn't be any better. Still, he let himself rest in his chair for a few moments longer before getting up and heading out of his cabin to knock on Antonio's door. It opened a few seconds later and Antonio poked his head out with a cautious expression, which melted into relief when he saw Peter.

"Captain. Safe to come out then, is it?" He didn't quite let the door open much more than crack until Peter couldn't help but let a small smile spread across his lips while he nodded.

"Yes, Laurence has left to terrorize someone else now." 

Antonio nodded, letting the door open more, and immediately Peter caught sight of Erasmus bouncing off the bed to investigate who was at the door. Suddenly it made sense why Peter hadn't seen the cat in so long; the entire time Antonio had been his elusive self, the cat had been nowhere to be found. Birds of a feather? Or… wasn't there some sort of expression involving cats and cradles? "So… have a good chat then?"

"It was as terrible and brutal as expected." Peter sighed, letting go of some of his usual reservations, such as allowing himself to lean against the door frame for no other reason than to alleviate some of the weight off his feet.

Antonio took to leaning against the opposite side of the frame from inside the room, "all your family that weird?"

Peter smirked, shaking his head. "No. Laurence is a bit of an odd one out." 

"Ah." Antonio let out a little sigh, yawning into his hand a second later. "Well, awkward family encounters aside; how're you feeling?"

Peter considered all aspects of the question, before replying. "I wouldn't be against having good company."

"Oh?  _ Good _ company, is it? Well, I can check and see if Mr. Dahl isn't busy then; figure he's as good as it gets around here."

Peter let out a soft chuckle, reaching out a hand to Antonio, who stared at it for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Come with me," Peter said.

Antonio bit his lip, nose wrinkling as if he wasn't sure how to feel about the request, but he obliged; not taking Peter's hand, but leaving his room and linking an arm through one of Peter's. And somehow, Peter thought it was more intimate like this, but he wouldn't say that. It was a certain fact that if he did, Antonio would get flustered and pull away and… Peter didn't want that to happen. For some reason, ever since Antonio had been pulled from his arms while they'd been in the Lonely, he'd felt… Well, Lawrence had been right about one thing. Peter was maybe feeling a  _ little _ protective.

Peter had spent his entire life disappearing on people, and yet somehow having someone else now do the same thing, willing or not (and Peter couldn't be for sure if Antonio truly was unwilling in his Entities shenanigans), it… well, it hit different.

Antonio's arm slipped out of his once they were inside Peter's cabin, Peter staying behind to close the door, and only realizing that Erasmus had snuck in with them when he heard the tinkling of the bell on the cat's collar when they jumped up on one of the rattan chairs.

When he looked around for Antonio, he was standing over the little kitchenette, clearing things away, opening cupboards up and organizing the insides to make room for the various knick-knacks that had started to clutter up the counter space. But more importantly, he seemed to be trying to find a place to hide the sugar bowl. 

"Antonio, just leave it." Peter sighed, coming behind him, and wrapping his arms around Antonio's waist, giving him a light tug.

"Fine, I'll just take it back to my room later and… Christ, when did all my books end up in here? No wonder I can't find anything to read." But he still leaned his back against Peter's chest, wrapping his arms over Peter's and giving a small squeeze. "This place is turning into a nightmare." He tilted his head back against Peter, “I meant to clean up when we're still in Colón." He mumbled with a yawn.

"Looks clean enough to me." Peter rested his chin on top of Antonio's head; the smell of his own shampoo clinging to the man's coily curls.

"Sure, it's clean-clean, but, god my stuff is everywhere— when did it get this bad?"

Peter suppressed another sigh, pressing his face down into Antonio's hair instead. "You're embellishing a bit, don't you think?" But even Peter had to admit, there was a stark contrast within his cabin, of things that were his, and things that definitely were not, though there were a few grey areas as well. There were enough occasions in which Peter would try and pull on a shirt, only to find it much too tight for him to fit into; though there was one shirt that definitely wasn't his that he found himself fitting into rather nicely. An old red flannel that he wore now, only just realizing it when Antonio started kneading his hands against the fabric around Peter's forearms.

Antonio's hands paused in the movements, and Peter felt him tilting his head down, no doubt looking at the fabric beneath his hands. "God, you're actually wearing one of  _ my _ shirts."

"It wasn't entirely on purpose; and besides, you often go running out of the room in  _ my  _ clothing; it would be rather hypocritical for you to complain." Peter shifted, leaning down to rest his chin against Antonio's shoulder. "And this one does happen to be rather large on you; if it was the same size as the others I wouldn't fit in it."

Antonio tensed in Peter's embrace; it was such a small action, if they hadn't been standing as they were, Peter likely wouldn't have noticed. "It was my dad's." Antonio's voice was quiet, his fingers still pulling at the sleeves of the shirt.

Peter's brow furrowed, uncertain of how to respond to that. "I... I can remove it if you--"

Oliver gave a small shake of his head, "no, no it's fine, it... it kind of suits you actually. Sort of clashes with your rugged sea captain look, though, doesn't it? Got you lookin' more like a lumberjack now." 

"Procure me an axe, I'll chop you some timber, then." Peter played along, pressing his face into the crook of Antonio's neck, nuzzling gently before nipping at the soft skin. 

Antonio laughed, "might need to procure you a forest first, eh? Not a lot of trees at sea, now is there?" 

Peter hummed, "That is very true, yes." He pulled Antonio again, until he had the man backing up with him, allowing himself to be guided towards the bed behind them. With each step, all thoughts of what Lawrence had accused Antonio of melted away. After all, it was very hard to focus on what had happened before the moments that were presenting themselves now as he pulled Antonio down onto the mattress; the man following along with each step with the grace of a well practiced dancer, even as he turned to face Peter it seemed reminiscent of a twirl. And he couldn't help but notice the way the mark across Antonio's body began pulsing with that soft rippling glow that seemed as natural across the man's skin as the shifting of the tides against a sandy shore.

It would be sometime later that Peter's thoughts would shift back to what his uncle had said; when they were both laying completely undressed, bodies entwined, and Antonio seemed to be drifting off into a deep slumber. Perhaps Antonio had done something questionable that Laurence had overseen, but Peter had no doubt in his mind that Antonio was not the sort to kill anyone. Besides, what would it accomplish, in the end? Plus, if anything happened aboard the ship, Peter knew exactly who to ask. After all, there wasn't a single thing that happened aboard the Tundra that Tadeas Dahl didn't know about.

But that could wait until morning. For now, Peter was content with sharing his bed with Antonio, laying back, and warmed by how Antonio seemed to immediately take this as an excuse to shift and lay across Peter’s chest. Though perhaps ‘warmed’ wasn’t quite the right word, as Peter shivered when he felt Antonio’s cold skin press against his chest. 

This somewhat roused Antonio, who mumbled something along the lines of, “sorry, m’cold.”

And in that moment, there was no way Peter could even entertain the idea that Antonio was even capable of taking a life. Not even if it had been some sort of unfortunate accident. Peter pressed a hand against the side of Antonio’s face, cupping his cheek in his hand and admiring his soft, dark features. “You’re in luck that I happen to be incredibly warm then.” He whispered a reply, and briefly, Antonio blinked his eyes open. And only for a moment did Peter’s heart fall. 

The warm amber of his eyes were now marked with the swirling stars of the cosmos. Which, unrelated to the cause, made them all the more hypnotic, how the amber of his irises seemed to merge with the twinkling specks in a way that resembled a breathtaking nebula. But there would now always be the lingering possibility that if he ever looked too closely at the sky above, he might never be able to look away again.

Then again, if Peter had learned anything about the Tundra’s passenger, it was that… all the things Peter had been taking for granted all his life… they very rarely applied to Antonio Blake.

And so, he eventually drifted off into his own well deserved slumber.

\--- --- ---

When Peter awoke to sunlight peeking in through the window above his head, he was more surprised than he should've been to find himself alone in his bed. He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd woken to find Antonio still in his cabin; and 3 of those 5 times had been Peter being roused by the sound of Antonio tripping over his own feet while trying to get his trousers pulled up before he would make his exit.

But much like the night before, Peter found his chest feeling heavy, a dull ache residing within his ribcage when he'd blinked his eyes open and stretched out a hand, expecting to find someone next to him. Yet his hand had patted at open air, and he'd felt like an ass for having such an expectation. The more he pondered on it, the more he felt like a complete fool. He was a Lukas, was he not? The Lonely was in his blood, fused to his very core, and here he was turning himself into a rich feeding ground for his Patron. A thought struck him as he sat up, legs hanging over the edge of the bed. When was the last time he'd gone into the Forsaken? Aside from that time in Colón when he'd foolishly taken Antonio there, when was the last time he'd gone purely just for his own sake?

He wasn't sure he could remember. It seemed entirely possible that he hadn't gone there since the ship had left Southampton. It seemed now that every waking moment not spent with Antonio had been spent reading reports, or simply waiting until the next plausible moment he could see the ship's passenger again. Was he getting sick? Or... was he losing touch with his own God? No, that wasn't possible. Peter exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the panic that was swelling up within him at the thought. If he ignored it, it wasn't real, right? 

He closed his eyes, breathing in and out, feeling his chest expand with each inhale, and his stomach flatten on each exhale. And when he opened his eyes again, he was no longer on his bed, but standing on a foggy beach, the echoing sound of crashing waves pricking his ears and settling his racing heartbeat. His next exhale came out as a whooshing sigh, tension leaking out from his body as he curled his toes into the grainy sand under foot. There was nowhere on Earth that felt like home to him; not like the Forsaken did. And the mere thought that he might lose it... Well, let's just say he would never entertain such an idea again.

He stood on that lonely stretch of fog covered beach for what could have been days, but would only be a few hours. The fog that circulated around him fluctuating to curl around him on occasion, sending shivers up his spine, and leaving his skin feeling prickly.

As always when he came here, he found himself reluctant to leave; but this time, perhaps he was hesitant about leaving due to another reason.

He wasn't wearing any clothes.

One would think this no problem at all, he needed only to deposit himself back into his cabin. But traversing through the Lonely was a fickle thing, especially when your point of re-entry was one that moved. And while Peter did have, for lack of a better term, an anchor aboard the Tundra; there was every chance that when he located said anchor, he may find his first mate standing up on deck, or possibly even on the bridge having a morning roll-call. Of course… there was one other person Peter had at some point (and somewhat reluctantly) registered as a viable anchor point but… well, if  _ He _ saw Peter coming for whatever reason, his own abilities allowed him to send Peter to any number of locations. 

Peter had never been one who was inclined to curse, but at this point? Well, he quite deserved an honest swear.

Peter focused his intent, and in moments, gritty sand turned to cold wooden flooring, and a familiar presence tickled his senses as he breathed out, blinking slowly as his eyes adjusted to lighting inside of Elias Bouchard's office, located on the second floor of the Magnus Institute, London.

The Director of the institute was sitting behind his desk, frowning at paperwork, and his frown only deepened when he sensed the shift of temperature within his office; he saw Peter before he even looked up from his work. But that still didn't stop the shocked expression from crossing his face when he made eye contact with his ex-of-many-things standing buck-ass naked in the corner of his office. "Good evening, Elias. You wouldn't happen to have any of my clothes still about, would you?"

"Peter, what in God's name-- why on earth are you naked?" 

"I hardly see what relevance that may have; if you haven't got any clothes on hand, then perhaps a blanket? There seems to be a bit of draft in here."

Elias opened his mouth, but didn't seem quite able to form anything more than a few sounds that could have been words if he put more effort into them. "I-- you are unbelievable." 

Peter didn't humour that with a response. Instead, he switched topics. "I rather thought you'd be expecting me, all things considered. You did send Simon all the way to Colón just because I failed to reply to a few calls."

"Oh, is that why you're here?" Elias had a tone that was thick with sarcasm as he got up from his desk, shuffling around the room towards a large wooden cabinet, pulling it open and rummaging through it as he continued speaking. "Honestly, given what I heard from our mutual acquaintance, I didn't expect to see you again for some time."

Peter made certain the office door was indeed closed before leaving the corner and heading over to the cabinet Elias was still rifling through. "Did Simon have something interesting to say, then? And how much of it is true, do you think?"

Elias glared up at him. And given that he stood at about 5'6, it was a rather long way up. "You know I can't see anything that happens aboard the Tundra, not given how often you go dunking it into the Lonely." Elias seemed to find something to his liking, pulling it out of the very back of the cabinet and holding it out for Peter to take. "For the love of God, please put this on now. I don't know what would happen if someone were to walk in and see you standing in my office like this."

"Oh? Are you implying that you won't be able to see them coming? Am I really so distracting?" Peter couldn't stop himself from poking at Elias, especially when the man appeared to truly be quite flustered by Peter's state of undress. But he took the offered suit, unsurprised to find that it was certainly one of his. It was a great deal more fancy than what he would ever wear aboard the Tundra, but it wasn't like he had any alternatives. "Wouldn't happen to have any of my shoes? A pair of pants, maybe?"

"Peter, why are you here?"

He'd already taken the clothes out of their slip, and was in the process of pulling up a pair of trousers when Elias asked him this. He didn't respond until he had the zipper pulled up and the buttons fastened. "I needed clothes; and I've mentioned before how terribly difficult it is to locate the Tundra from inside the Forsaken."

Elias glared at him, and a moment later, Peter could feel a tingling sensation at the base of his skull. But the moment he made eye contact with Elias, the feeling was gone. Elias wasn't going to get anything from him that way; Peter had long since learned a trick or two against that. It was actually one of the reasons Peter had such troubles thinking before doing things. After all, no one can foresee what you're planning if you don't even know what you're planning. "Fine. Care to explain what happened to your clothes then? Or do you often go into the Lonely while nude these days?"

Peter sighed, pulling the dress shirt up over his shoulders, noting the twill fabric but still couldn’t quite place which suit this was, or when the last time he’d worn it was. He began doing up each button with more care than he really needed, stretching out the silence and not thinking about his response until he opened his mouth to give it. "I may have gone into the Forsaken somewhat on impulse this morning, and unfortunately didn't realize that I'd forgotten my trousers and everything else until I was ready to leave." Elias wouldn't like that answer. Not enough information, and what information there was, was subjective at best.

Proving him right, Elias rolled his eyes dramatically, stalking back over to his desk to begin collecting papers, arranging them into neat little stacks as he spoke. "So am I to believe, what? You stepped out of the shower this morning, slipped and fell into your little foggy otherworld? Hardly sounds like you."

Peter shrugged into the waistcoat, which he immediately remembered as one he hadn't worn since the last family function. Ah yes, that was right. He'd taken Elias with him to that one, and when Peter had said something Elias didn't like, the short prick had splashed champagne onto his outfit. And Elias' idea of an apology was taking the suit to the dry cleaners, while using Peter's own money to pay for the bill. Those were simpler days, though. "You can believe whatever you like, Elias. And I take it that's a no to the shoes, yes?"

Elias didn't even bother looking at him as he scoffed. But once there were no papers left on his desk that hadn't been neatly stacked, or filed away into the filing cabinet next to his desk, he really had no choice but to acknowledge Peter again. "Are you, or aren't you, here because of my wager?"

Peter didn't think, merely spoke. "I am not here because of your offered wager; whatever it may entail." He still hadn't actually gotten any details on that yet.

Elias cocked his head to the side, not blinking as he studied Peter's face for what felt like far too long. Finally he nodded, seemingly to himself. "Well then. It seems Simon isn't entirely full of it. You are seeing someone new after all."

He squinted at Elias, pausing in the middle of fixing his cuffs as his brain slowed to a crawl. "I'm sorry, what makes you--"

"Because despite what you may think of yourself, you are a creature of habit, Peter. You come across something that you think might fill that void inside you and then you don’t hesitate in letting that something consume you entirely; that is until you wake up one day and realize the void is still there, and then you carry on towards the next fixation, over and over and over again. It’s why you only stay out to sea for so many months before coming back to land; why you’ll be at the poker table for a week, before switching over to blackjack-- and why a relationship between us never lasts; unless there’s a wager to be had to keep the spark going. But you made yourself very clear to Simon that you aren’t interested in my new wager until your ship’s returned to Southampton Port. It does make me wonder though; does this  _ Antonio  _ know you’ve already planned to be done with him in such a neat little time slot? Or am I being a bit too presumptuous in assuming it will even last that long?”

Elias focused his sharp gaze on Peter again, and he could feel that abrupt tingle again, but Peter had already started recalling the lyrics to that Cher song that had been on the music device of that icelandic crew member. He was actually fairly certain he still had the little music device around somewhere. Elias let out an aggravated sigh somewhere near the second chorus, and Peter felt comfortable with his own thoughts again. Provided he kept them focused on something mundane, rather than on anything he might think too hard on and possibly have some sort of... emotional reaction to. Otherwise, he had no doubts Elias would latch on to such feelings in a moment's notice and tear it all out of him without hesitation. "Any other statements of the painfully obvious variety you care to make, dear?"

Elias glared up at him, eyes sharp and of a golden hue that Peter, once upon a time, had... well, it didn't matter now, did it? "You have your clothes, why are you still here?"

"I’m still wondering if you might have any shoes?" Peter stepped away from where he'd gotten dressed, shrugging on the suit jacket before leaning back against Elias' desk, looming over the shorter man with a slightly smug expression. "It would be a shame to show up so over dressed in all regards, save my poor feet."

Rather than humouring Peter by craning his neck to make eye contact, Elias looked away. "None that would be in your size, no."

"A shame. Though I could've sworn the champagne you threw on my outfit had gotten the shoes to. Ah well, must've been lost in all that followed."

Elias eyed him, before quickly returning his focus to the things he was rearranging on his desk. "You remember that, do you?"

"Of course, I ended up having to get a new watch, after all."

"For a completely different reason-- and, I do remember apologizing for my outburst, did I not?"

"You did, yes. But like with all your apologies, I took with a meager grain of salt."

Elias' brow furrowed, and he clearly wasn't amused by this conversation. But, in the end, he sighed, turning to face Peter, and reaching up to fix his collar, before pulling at the undone tie that Peter had left draped around his neck. "Regardless, shoes or no shoes, this is still one of your better suits. One might even comment on how well it suits you." Elias sighed, finishing a knot that Peter had never bothered to learn the name of, before looking up at Peter, or more specifically at his hair. "When was the last time you had cut, Peter?" He fussed, running his hands through Peter's hair, parting it and combing it back from his face.

Gently, Peter took him by the wrists, and pulled Elias' hands from his hair. "I don't see how that's any of your concern anymore." For a moment, just a sliver of a second, Peter caught something real shifting behind those golden eyes; before a smug little smirk painted itself across Elias Bouchard's face, and with a blink it was gone.

"Fair enough, I suppose." Elias pulled free from Peter's loose hold, and turned back to his desk, doing... whatever he'd been doing.

“I’ll be heading back to my ship, then. Until next time-- Oh, and do say hello to Apate for me, won’t you?" He didn't wait for Elias to make any sort of response, merely vanished from the room. No doubt leaving a chill hanging in the air as he left.

Peter drifted for a while, not quite entering the Forsaken, but not quite on any... earthly plain, for lack of better wording. It took a great deal of focus for him to really locate Tadeas' presence, and by extension, the Tundra. But as luck would have it, he soon found himself standing barefoot, but otherwise incredibly overdressed, in one of the Tundra's inner hallways. Directly before him was Tadeas, speaking in a language he didn't recognize at first until the first mate paused, and the person he'd been conversing with replied.

It was German, and the person Tadeas was speaking it to was Antonio Blake. Peter couldn't understand a word of it, but it certainly sounded like Antonio was apologizing for something, but Tadeas' gaze had already shifted away to land directly on Peter. Eye contact lasted only for a moment before Tadeas looked to Antonio again, giving a single nod before saying, in english. "Perhaps we can continue this another time; or not at all. If you'll excuse me?" Tadeas didn't wait for a response, merely nodding his farewell, and heading off down the hall.

Antonio turned, watching him go with a mixed expression of relief and confusion. Peter shifted slightly, just enough that Antonio seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of his eye, doing a double take of Peter, before he gave a small wave. "Hallo, stranger-- oh, wow… um, a bit overdressed don't you think?" Antonio blinked multiple times as he noticed the clothes Peter was wearing.

"Ah, yes. Do you like it? Haven't worn it in a while, but I figure it will do for the family affair that’s coming up."

Antonio arched a brow, as he gave Peter a skeptical look. "Um... it's alright, I guess? But is the family gathering going to be at an opera or something?"

“Oh, nothing quite so dreadful. Just another funeral.” Peter spoke pleasantly, reaching out and looping an arm through one of Antonio's.

Who seemed a little taken aback-- either by Peter's comment, or the action; though he couldn't be certain. "Oh, I'm, uh... sorry for your loss?"

"Don't be, I have an incredibly large family, and I am on speaking terms with hardly any of them. Probably just another cousin, or what have you." He didn't know, and frankly, didn't care either.

"Um, okay..." Oliver frowned, and then leaned in closer against Peter. "So, pretending all that wasn't brought up just now; how might we be feeling today?"

Peter pretended to consider the question, but as they both seemed to be moving without a word to one another towards Peter's cabin, it was rather obvious they were on the same page. "I suppose I wouldn't be opposed to enjoying the company of a certain marine biologist."

"Oh? What a coincidence, I happen to know a marine biologist that would be quite interested in spending some time with a certain Captain."

"Is that so? Must be my lucky day, I suppose."

Antonio laughed as he slipped into the cabin first, and this time didn't go about trying to clear the place away of any of his things, and seemed entirely content with just going into the room. As per usual, Peter stayed behind to make sure the door was closed.

"Starting on a new ship?" Antonio asked, and Peter turned to see him looking at the worktable, where Peter had in fact been getting ready to start on another model. But that had been last night, before Laurence had made his grand appearance. And when Peter had noticed his uncle's presence aboard his ship, he'd been too distracted to really get any work done on it.

"Yes. I was thinking of naming it the  _ Antonio _ ." He lied, just to see what the other man's reaction would be.

To his credit, Antonio's face pinched and gave Peter a distasteful look. "No, no I don't think so."

"No? You wouldn't have another suggestion then, would you?" 

Antonio looked contemplative for a moment. "Hm... well, I assume  _ noctiluca scintillans _ would be a touch too long, wouldn't it?"

Peter frowned, "yes."

"Hm... How about just Sea Sparkle then; a common name for  _ noctiluca scintillans _ ?"

It sounded pretty, but... not in a way that made Peter partial towards it. "Why don't we keep it to 7 letters or less? And a name, preferably."

Antonio looked slightly less enthused now, but still had a look about him like he was still thinking about other possible names. It was a moment later that he chuckled a bit, picking up the empty bottle and moving it around in his hands. “Well, I did have this favourite book as a kid.”

“You aren’t going to suggest  _ Huckleberry Finn _ , are you?” Peter asked as he undid the tie with a small feeling of rebelliousness, and Antonio snorted.

“Uh, no. No, I… I was actually a bit of a fan of  _ Oliver Twist _ .” He admitted, and sounded like it was a difficult thing to admit.

"Is that right?" Peter had never been much for books, but the name did sound vaguely familiar, so he must have heard it from somewhere. "So are we going to call the ship Oliver, or Twist?"

Antonio laughed again. "Well, the  _ Twist _ ... it's certainly got a ring to it, doesn't it?" He placed the bottle back down on the table, coming over to where Peter was suddenly having a much harder time undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. Maybe this was why he hadn't bothered keeping track of it? "Here," Antonio reached out, slipping the buttons out of their holes with ease, one after the other. When they were all undone, Antonio gave him a pat on the cheek, before squinting at him, and it took Peter a moment to realize he was looking at his hair.

"I'm not going grey, am I?" Peter quipped, and clearly Antonio wasn't aware that this was his attempt as a joke, as in his attempt to not laugh at the question, Antonio made a brief choking sound, before pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat. "That was a joke, of course. I'm perfectly aware of the state of my hair."

"Yeah, right, of course. Um, are you aware that it looks terrible parted like that, though?"

Peter almost considered being offended by this, before he remembered that he hadn't been the one to do anything to his hair, so if Antonio had a problem with it, he was more than welcome to do something about it. "By all means, feel free to change it up then."

Antonio hesitated at the offer, but after a few seconds of deliberation, reached up and started combing his fingers through Peter's hair, before pulling most of it forward, and generally seemed to just be undoing whatever Elias had done to Peter's hair in the first place. "Honestly, you look better with messy hair. But..." Antonio played with the bangs that were now hanging down across Peter's forehead, and instead of combing them back, he skirted them to the side so a few strands still stuck out; none of them quite long enough to actually get into his eyes. "Hm. Very chic."

Peter frowned, but a corner of his mouth still turned up in an amused smile. "I'm not sure you know what that word means."

"Well, words are just sounds, and it's the people using them that gives 'em meaning to begin with."

"I see," Peter didn't have the mental strength right now to care for semantics, so he didn't argue or agree to Antonio's point, and instead decided to draw the conversation back to the model, and the name he figured they'd decided on. "So, the new ship model, then...  _ Oliver _ ?"

"Yes, love?" Antonio replied, as if Peter had said his name. And a second later he froze, his face stuck in an odd expression between,  _ what  _ and  _ wait a second... _

Peter tilted his head, brow furrowing. "Antonio?"

The man in front of him blinked a few times, before squinting at him. "Yeah?"

"When was the last time you slept, hm?"

Antonio sucked his teeth, flicking Peter against the shoulder and stepping away from him to sit on the bed, arms crossed. "I'll have you know I slept wonderfully last night. Just a... weird brain moment, everyone has them."

Peter finally slipped out of the waistcoat, letting it drop down on the end of the bed before he settled down next to Antonio, taking a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. Antonio looked down at Peter's hand, before making eye contact with an arched brow. "I am attempting to be comforting."

His face broke into a wide smile, shaking a bit with a silent laugh before he sighed, shaking his head. "Right, um... anyways-- how were you feeling again? 'Cause, don't get me wrong, that suit's looking pretty good on you; but I think it might look even better on the floor."

"I’m sorry, are you hitting on me, Mr. Blake?"

"Yes, it seems I am. What are you going to do about it, Captain Lukas?"

Well, what anyone would do when faced with a challenge. Peter had every intention of rising to the occasion, so to speak.

* * *

The final week, leading up to the Tundra reaching her coming destination would pass without any sort of issue. In fact, Peter had already decided that he wouldn’t even take any of the crew until it was time to leave the vicinity of Point Nemo. After all, his initial plan for what would happen when the Tundra reached the area had long been forgotten, and was nothing more than a distant memory

It was somewhat strange though; how there was a calm, almost peaceful, energy that prevailed on the Tundra throughout those final days. It should have been completely out of place aboard the ship, yet Peter found himself comforted by it. There was a calm certainty that had him entirely at ease, and perhaps even feeling more  _ focused _ , to the point that he found himself sitting leisurely in his cabin reading one of Tadeas’ reports without any trouble at all. That is, until right around when the ship should have just crossed the threshold into the area known as Point Nemo, and a gunshot rang out from the floor above his cabin.

And all Peter could be certain of then, was that the only place above his cabin was the Tundra’s bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: casual violence, implied sexual content, explicit nudity, Elias is in this chapter too, and with more than just a speaking role.


	12. IX. Destination Reached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tundra reaches her final destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

Oliver had been in the middle of organizing his things, sorting into piles the things in his room that were his from those that were not; all the while eyeing the untouched bag he'd brought with him that he'd stuffed with interestingly shaped bottles and some other random things that he was fairly certain were from quite a few Halloweens passed. The closer the ship got to Point Nemo, the more his mind itched at how he was going to pull this off in a way that wouldn't spill his secret to the captain and crew of the Tundra. He very much was not a marine biologist, and while he was fairly certain no one else on board had much of a clue what such a profession did; maybe 'collecting water samples' in a mason jar wouldn't look all that out of place to them? He could even make some mention that he'd been planning to use up most of his spare money on this trip, and thus hadn't remembered to purchase any proper equipment? Then again, the crew had become scarce again, so there was a good chance that he could just tell them he'd already gotten what he needed, and they just hadn't been around to witness it?

Ah, the sweet consequences of one’s actions; such a familiar friend.

Oliver had been so preoccupied with his guilty conscience, he hadn't really noticed when the air aboard the Tundra seemed to shift; that is until he found himself standing in the center of his room, arms hanging at his side, and eyes trained out the window, looking out over the back of the ship at the calm shifting waves so far below. 

We're here. He didn't know how he could be so certain, but he was regardless; and immediately he took off from his cabin, not even bothering with the door as he headed down the stairwell towards the main deck. He could feel his heart beating apprehensively in his chest as he pushed open the side door and moved out into the warm air beyond. He walked along the side of the ship, eyes trained on the water below, occasionally stopping to lean over the rail, scrutinizing the waves below.

He expected some glimmer of tendrils to be thriving below the water; but there were none. None at all! He could feel excitement bubbling up in his chest as he made it to the front of the ship, racing towards the bow. Oliver didn't really think before he put his feet up on the bottom rungs of the railing, gripping the sun-warmed metal as he lifted himself up, leaning over just a fraction of an inch to stare with wide eyes at the water below. There was nothing down there-- nothing at all. You could look to the left, or to the right; but he still wouldn't see any of those tendrils. 

It was such a shock. But the excitement didn't last long, there was a weight against his chest now. All around him, where he'd been marked, he could feel it against his skin, pulsating cold and certain.

No, no no no no no no... This couldn't be right, no... There, below the water, he could see it now, the thick black tendrils shifting along the surface of the water, like an arrow, getting more narrow as it pointed off into the distance.

His body felt ice cold, as the mark seemed to shift against his skin, squeezing him tightly, sending shivers through his body as he stared at the water, unblinking. He had no idea for how long, but when Oliver finally shifted his gaze, he could see a couple of the crew standing not far from him, staring back as if he'd done something to frighten them. He wanted to say something, but the mark that had once graced the side of his neck now felt as though it were wrapped around his throat. He could still breathe, but... he couldn't will himself to speak.

Would they even understand?

He wasn't even sure if he understood what was going on; but that didn't stop him from leaving the deck, and as that tendril like mark pulsed around him, a numbness settled over Oliver, and a calm certainty prevailed. The ship wasn't heading the right direction— but he would change that.

\--- --- ---

He had no idea where the gun had come from, or when exactly he'd made it to the bridge of the Tundra, but the moment he pushed the door open, he knew exactly what he had to do. The person standing at the wheel had a shocked and surprised look across their face that was nearly blocked out entirely by the thicket of tendrils that were spilling out from their forehead. Oliver raised the gun and fired, the mark squeezing his arm gently as he went about his movements. But it needn't have bothered. Oliver knew he had to do this; he knew he had to get to the point on the horizon-- and there was nothing that could stop him. 

Oliver spoke now, gun raised and pointed at whoever had been standing closest to the helmsman, the exact coordinates of where he needed to go spilling out of him. He was calm, and even patient, as the two crew members that were left on the bridge eyed each other, before moving into place to follow his command.  _ Progress. _

But it didn't last long; an unforeseen variable coming into play. The Captain’s voice filled the room from behind Oliver; and the crew froze immediately, eyes skittering back and forth between the gun in Oliver's hand, and the man who stood behind him.

"Both of you out; now."

"They're not going anywhere," Oliver turned, raising the gun, and leveling it so it pointed at Peter's chest.

He eyed the gun like it was a trivial threat before looking past Oliver at the crew again. "There's a door right there, try not to slip on the stairs coming down from the overlook."

"I need someone to steer the ship." But if Oliver was certain about anything, it was that if he lifted the gun off Peter, he doubted he'd get another chance to aim it right again. 

"What a shame, because I've already ordered the crew to stop the Tundra."

Oliver blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air on land. "You can't stop the ship."

"It would appear that I can, in fact. Now explain what it is you think you're doing."

"I'm going to Point Nemo." 

"What luck, we just so happen to already be there. The pole happens to be fairly large, but I'm sure if we go a little further west--"

"We need to go east."

Peter eyed him, seeming as cool as cucumber, even with a gun that had already been fired once trained on him. "Tell me something, Antonio. Are you really a marine biologist, or was that merely a lie to get yourself here? And if so, was it your intention from the start to drag my ship into your little dilemma?"

"I just needed to get here, it didn't matter how— I thought I was coming here to  _ escape  _ this, but... I-I don’t know, maybe I always knew this would happen? Definitely didn't see you coming though, did I?" 

Peter seemed to ignore the last part, focusing instead on the beginning of Oliver’s explanation. “So, it was all a lie, then?” Peter’s gaze remained transfixed on Oliver’s face. He couldn’t say for sure what he saw in those eyes right then. Was he hurt by this? Or did it come as a lack of surprise? Oliver didn’t want to think about it.

“A bit, yeah.” He admitted, unsure which lie it was that stung the man the most. “I’m not a marine biologist, my name isn’t Antonio; and I have no intentions of paying the Tundra for Her services. But… I really don’t know if I knew things would turn out this way. Of all the things I’m certain of, that isn’t one of them. And I don’t think I want this, but—” he couldn’t finish his sentence, feeling the mark squeezing gently against his throat.

“Is that so? So you waving a gun around my bridge, killing my crew– that isn’t something you want? Interesting how you’ve done it regardless.”

“I- no. But– I  _ need  _ to go there— I  _ have  _ to be there.”

“And you’ll shoot me to get there?”

The question stung, But as Oliver let the words roll over him, he felt a calm certainty follow. “Yes. If I have to.” Peter tilted his head, like he wasn’t sure he believed that; but he’d be wrong. “But _only_ _if_ you stand in my way.”

“I won’t let you take my ship—”

“You can’t stop me.” A chill settled across him; the words coming from deep within as his posture relaxed. He still held the gun firmly, though. “Just turn the ship, Peter.”

Peter, who had been calmly standing with both hands held up, now lowered them, matching the calm pose Oliver had. “No.”

Oliver could feel the mark writhing against his skin again, tightening around his arm, and he could feel its will, its desire for him to pull the trigger just once more. Just one more tug of the trigger, and then it can all end. He couldn't though, could he? Actually, no. Yes he fucking could. The pressure against his body retracted as his finger found the trigger; and whether on purpose or not, Oliver blinked as he pressed down. His eyes opened again with a start, looking down at the gun, and at the hand that had wrapped around the top, a thumb pushed in behind the trigger, so no amount of pressure on it would actually make it click and release it's shot.

He blinked once, then twice, not quite sure of what to do. This wasn't supposed to be happening. A hand against his shoulder made him jump, his hand letting go of the gun as he tried to step back, but the grip on his shoulder was firm. Tadeas Dahl let him go a moment later to take the gun in both hands, releasing the clip from the bottom and tucking it into his back pocket, then folding his hands over the gun and stood at ease. "If I might offer a suggestion?"

Oliver tilted his head looking at Tadeas, only to find that the first mate was looking at the Captain. Peter just shrugged, looking as surprised as Oliver to see Tadeas even there in the first place. "Of course, yes." Peter's gaze drifted over towards Oliver, but he couldn't bring himself to meet his eye, instead looking down at his hands. On the hand that had been holding the gun that Tadeas had taken from him, there seemed to be some sort of silk fiber clinging gently to the back of his hand, and across the side of his thumb.

"Mr. Blake cannot take the ship, but we do have a few lifeboats at our disposal, as well as enough crew aboard to send a few out with him."

Oliver frowned, eyes traveling up to look at his shoulder, where he noticed more of the pale thread. "You're not going to just pitch me overboard?"

Tadeas met his gaze with his usual lack of expression. "Of course not. You are a passenger aboard the Tundra, and our passengers always reach their destinations." Then he looked to Peter again. "That is, if the Captain is amiable to the compromise?" 

Peter looked about as confused as Oliver felt, but he nodded. Again he tried to look at Oliver, but... Oliver was actually very good at seeming preoccupied with the strands of... whatever it was, that clung to the side of his hand and shoulder. "Amiable is a strong word, but I will allow it."

"Wonderful, after you then, Mr. Blake. Best we head straight down to the main deck; unless of course there is something you need to take with you?"

Oliver only shook his head, finally managing to pull free one of the loose strands. And while looking at it, he could just make out the silhouette of Peter turning and exiting from the bridge. "What is this? Why do I..."

Tadeas put a work-worn hand over his, placing his other hand against Oliver's shoulder again as he steered him over towards the door that led out onto the bridge's overlook. "I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Blake. My only suggestion would be that you leave it alone until you have left the ship. Otherwise, I imagine things could get very messy again. It's already going to be a long day getting the mess you made of Greg cleaned up, no need to add more onto the pile, ja?"

"Okay..." Did he feel dizzy? Or... maybe it was all the events prior catching up to him just now. He could still feel the mark pulsing against him, but it seemed... weak, maybe?

He tried not to think about it, and stopped pulling at the threads that clung to his hand and clothes.

* * *

He waited long enough for Tadeas to lead the ship's passenger down to the main deck before he came back onto the bridge. He didn't bother inspecting the corpse Antonio had made-- Oh, right, could Peter actually call him that?  _ Antonio _ . No wonder it had been such a well suited name; it wasn't real, and was most likely created specifically to sound like the perfect name for himself. Now, Peter wasn't actually all that bothered to know that he didn't have the Passenger's real name; if anything that was something of a relief. No, it was everything else that had Peter in a state of... [real unhappy]. 

The worst of it was, Peter still had no idea what Entity the Passenger served. He stepped out onto the bridge's overlook, finding the perfect spot to stand idle and watch from afar as Tadeas seemed to be asking the Passenger which lifeboat was to his liking. Good old reliable Tadeas.

Peter found himself leaning down against the railing, watching but having no interest in actually listening. There were many thoughts going through his mind right now, that he was fairly certain even if he could physically hear them, he'd still be unable to parse what they said, from what was going on inside his head.

Antonio... Yes, that's what Peter would still call the man. It wasn't like there was much of a point in changing how he thought of the Passenger now. No, not unless he reintroduced himself with another name, and added an apology for the mess he'd made on the bridge. But Peter got the feeling that once Antonio got on that lifeboat, he would not be coming back.

Peter squinted over the railing, a scowl spreading across his face as Antonio pointed to one of the lifeboats, and seemed insistent that it would be the one he had to take. The scowl only deepened when he saw Tadeas nodding. Of all the-- it just had to be the last surviving piece of the Sahara. Well, that's what Peter got for being sentimental. He turned his back to the railing, letting his head fall back and his eyes close as he focused on the smell of the sea and the feeling of the soft breeze coming from the south. He certainly had no reason to be sulking about keeping an eye out on what Antonio and Tadeas were no up to. There wasn't a person dead or alive as competent as Tadeas, and so, if the first mate wanted to deal with this issue, so be it. Didn't mean Peter had to get himself further involved.

There was the feeling of something buzzing against his chest, making him snap his head forward. Tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket was the cellular Simon had forced upon him. but who on earth would be calling him? Elias certainly wouldn't, not while he was at sea (and it was even less likely now after their last conversation) and there wasn't really anything stopping Simon from just showing up. Naturally, Peter didn't recognize the number that was displayed on the small screen. But he could go for a distraction, so he flipped it open, holding it up to his ear.

"Hello? Captain Lukas of the Tundra, speaking."

There was a long enough pause that Peter wasn’t entirely sure if he’d answered it in time.  _ “Peter, hello.” _

Peter frowned for a moment, not quite recognizing the voice at first. “Percy? Is that you?”

_ “Yes. Are you still at sea, nephew?” _ There was an odd sort of strain to her voice, which was what had made it so difficult at first to recognize her. He’d always known his aunt to speak with nothing but firm certainty.

“I am. Though perhaps not for much longer.” Aunt Percy was the only person in his family that he would never consider lying to. Not because of any sense of trust, or what have you, but because it was a waste of time. Peter though, never did quite learn  _ why _ that was the case.

_ "You are on your way back to port then, yes?" _

"Before evening the ship should be turned in such a direction." Panama City would be the preferred port, but Peter figured the ship would be better for it if they simply headed to the nearest port instead. 

There came a pause from the other end of the line, and Peter found himself wondering if Percy had hung up on him.  _ "Remain on course heading west, due north towards New Zealand." _

Peter continued to frown, casting a gaze around the top deck as if he expected to see his Aunt standing somewhere nearby. But Percy never left Moorland House, so that couldn't be possible. "And why would I do that?"

_ "Would you like me to lie to you?"  _ Percy asked, her voice slowly returning to the neutral, uncaring tone he'd expect from her.

"I would not. I've quite had my fill for lies already." He took to leaning back against the railing again, draping an arm against the rail and tapping his nails against the steel.

There came a short exhale before Percy explained herself. _ "It seems a faction of the Web has rigged a series of events in an attempt to end your life— do not ask how I came by this information, or why I care to stop it— but it is nevertheless true. If you change your course to the east, you will not make it to port, so correct your course towards the north and stay heading west and keep a set of eyes on the sky until your a day from your current location. Your uncle will be waiting at the Port of Napier for you, and he will accompany you aboard the Tundra back to Southampton." _

His eyes narrowed at this information, but he knew better than to question his aunt. "By 'my uncle', I assume you mean Laurence, yes?" 

_ "That is correct. He should have made contact with you previously, to which he was meant to stay aboard the Tundra, but he can be a bit of a loose cannon. Regardless, I have something on him now that will keep him from disobeying my request this time." _

Peter shifted his gaze towards the sound of tapping nails, only then realizing it was himself making the noise. Immediately he curled his hand up, and then proceeded to tuck it away into the pocket of his coat, effectively putting a stop to any future slip up. "And I suppose I have no say in any of this?"

_ "That is correct."  _ Came the short response.

Peter swallowed an indignant sigh. "Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through just for a single person." Technically, he wasn't asking Percy anything, merely stating an observation.

_ "That is very much true; so my suggestion to you is not to fuck this up. You're already lucky enough that I--" _ Percy caught herself in time to pause, the line going utterly silent for a few moments. " _ Well _ ," her voice returned to it's usual neutral tone,  _ "just don't keep your uncle waiting too long, Peter. You know how he gets." _

"Understood." Peter replied with his own overly cheery, and incredibly fake, tone. "Do try to keep more in touch, will you? I do ever so much enjoy our little chats, Auntie." He started to pull the phone away from his ear when he caught Percy beginning to speak again.

"--  _ one more thing, Peter _ ."

"Is it something family related?" Peter finally sighed into the receiver.

_ "It is not, no." _

"Oh, then by all means, continue."

_ "I simply wanted to make sure you were planning to give Tadeas Dahl a raise. The Tundra's first mate, yes?" _

Peter was silent looking over his left shoulder to where the first mate had been standing with the passenger, only to find neither of them there anymore. But he still kept his gaze unfocused around the spot he'd last seen Tadeas standing. "The thought may have crossed my mind."

_ "That will have to do for now, I suppose." _ Percy didn't sound surprised by Peter's lack of commitment.  _ "Until next time, nephew." _ The sound of the connection being dropped buzzed in his ear a second later, and Peter righted himself. The moment his eyes faced forward once more, he froze in surprise to see someone standing across the overlook from him.

It was Antonio, standing awkwardly and a bit shaky. A posture that didn’t suit him, as the entire time Peter had known him, there had always been a sort of certainty to his pose. Even when he’d been anxiously wringing his hands, he’d always had an air of certainty about him; but that all seemed to be stripped away now. When his mouth moved to form words, Peter half expected him to ask who Peter had been on the phone with, but he didn’t. “Are you alright?”

Peter considered the question for a moment, tucking his cellular back into the inside pocket of his coat. “I suppose that would depend on what your definition of the word ‘ _ alright _ ’ is.”

Antonio nodded, but Peter's comment didn't seem to quite make an impact on him. "Right, of course."

Peter stared at him for a few moments, wondering many things, but only speaking of one. "What do you want, Antonio? Ah, apologies, is that still what I'm to call you?" His tone wasn't one that implied the deceit had hurt him in any way, but the man still flinched.

"It's fine, you can call me whatever you like... and I-- I just want to... I... can't say the words, I--" There was a brief look of distress on his face, before that seemed to wash away, and he was left looking distant and dazed again, arms staying limp at his side.

"So you haven't come up here to finish me off then?" That definitely came out as an accusation, but Peter was fine with that.

"No." Antonio responded in earnest; or as much as he seemed able to sound as such. "I--"

Peter could have the patience of a saint, on a good day, but so far this day had been anything but good. "You what, Antonio? Are you trying to apologize for trying to kill me? If so..." but Peter couldn't finish what he was going to say when he noticed the spark in Antonio's eye as the man nodded very fast at what Peter had just said.

"Yes-- that- I want to, b-" Antonio lifted a hand against this throat, where the mark seemed to have stretched across from the side of his neck to wrap clear around. If Peter hadn't already been aware of the mark, he might've mistaken it for one of those choker necklaces. But just as quickly as the spark appeared, it seemed to fade, and the distant expression returned to Antonio's face.

The last thing Peter wanted to do was feel sorry for the man that had just been so gungho about ending his life, but... Fickle things, emotions were. "Antonio--"

"Pete, I was gonna kill you. If Tadeas hadn't been there, I'd've done it."

Peter shifted, feeling a bit awkward. This wasn't normally what a person followed up an apology with. "Why?"

Antonio looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. "I--" Clearly he didn't know how to respond to such a question. "I don't know."

Peter tilted his head slightly as he looked down at the man in front of him. There were at least a dozen questions he could have asked right then, but he thought it would be best to say, "Why the gun? Why did you choose to become a threat, when all you had to do was ask. If you'd only kept up the farce long enough to ask for the ship to be turned, you'd likely already be there by now. Wherever you wanted to go, you only had to ask."

He was avoiding eye contact now, rubbing at his neck with one hand as he tried to step back, to put some space between them, but Peter moved closer, until Antonio was standing with his back against the railing of the overlook. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I- I don't know. I- I..." he trailed off, voice going quiet as he said, "I wanted them to be scared."

"Of what?"

"Of... I don't know. I... I went to the main deck and I knew, I knew we were here, I knew the ship had made it to Point Nemo, and... then I was on the bridge, a- a gun in my hand, and I knew I had to shoot him; none of them even knew what was happening, at all- and there... there was just something about that? The way they were all just standing there, just existing, and living, and then... Just like that. One of them wasn't. And the other two they-- they were terrified.. and I don't know how to explain it. But, then you showed up, and all that fear they had, it was gone." He looked up, looked directly into Peter's eyes and said, "It was gone, because they were more scared of you than me, and I was an immediate threat to their  _ lives _ ."

Peter was rather taken aback by this. Honestly, he was just a bit amused to hear that his crew were more terrified of him then they were of a man  _ with a gun _ , who had also  _ just shot someone _ right in front of them. "So you planned to shoot me out of spite, then?"

Antonio's face pinched, before slowly relaxing into a tired expression. "I... guess so, yeah." He let out a short huff, reaching up and pressing a hand against Peter's chest, and Peter was too surprised by the action to really do anything about it. "Should've known it wasn't gonna work, though. It doesn't want you yet."

Peter was distracted by the hand against his chest, reaching down to take Antonio by the wrist, lifting his hand to inspect the back of it. "And do you know what It is?" He asked, picking at the loose threads that seemed to be clinging to the back of Antonio's hand. Was it... spiderweb? Peter had never considered--

"Hm? Oh, right, The Coming End That Waits For All And Cannot Be Ignored.”

Peter frowned, looking up at Antonio. "The End?" That would certainly explain a few things but... the End had always been a passive entity, never needing to go out of Its way for anything. Yet It had tracked this man before him, following him every step of the way, halfway across the world. "Perhaps that ought to be changed to,  _ Waits for all, except one _ , as It seems to be going well out of Its way for you, Mr. Blake.”

Antonio gave a somewhat dazed chuckle. “I guess even a God can get impatient from time to time.” Apparently he still had his specific sense of humour intact.

As he looked up from Antonio's hand, Peter’s eye caught sight of something on his neck; more of the loose spidersilk clinging to his shoulder, spread towards his neck and throat where the mark still appeared to occasionally glow with a weak spark. “What is this?” He asked, caressing the pale threads that stretched across Antonio’s neck.

Antonio blinked, not exactly able to look at the spot that Peter was pointing out; but the threads were spread out along his shoulder all the way down until a few threads connected to the ones wrapped around his hand. “I- I’m not really sure… Tadeas, he… he told me to just leave it be until I’m off the ship. I… I think it’s what makes it so hard to focus right now. I mean I can… I still feel It, out there, but…” Antonio’s fingers brushed against the silk before they began tracing the mark across his throat. "It's waiting, again. Know's I'm coming, I guess."

Looking at his face, all Peter could see was soft resignation. Whatever happened next, it was clear that Antonio was no longer going to try and avoid it. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what else to do now, aside from wrapping his arms around Antonio and pulling him into a firm embrace. He felt him tense against him, before slowly relaxing with a shaky sigh, burying his face against the side of Peter's neck. "Why did you run?" It wasn't the most obvious question, but it was one that Peter couldn't even begin to think of an answer for. To go through all this trouble just to avoid an entity, and one that clearly had such a keen interest in Antonio-- the End had even gone so far as to spare Antonio from the Lonely, not once, but twice, That, within itself, likely had taken tremendous effort on the entity's part. From Peter's perspective... if the One Alone had ever shown such apparent affection for him, how could he run from It?

"You’ll probably think it sounds silly." He finally said, after a long exhale. 

And Peter had the strangest sense of deja vu when he replied, "Humour me."

Antonio sighed, shifting against Peter. "I wanted to sleep. To be able to just... close my eyes and get some proper rest."

He frowned, leaning back to look down at Antonio with an arched brow. "Did the End give you insomnia?"

Antonio's face pinched as he shook his head. "No, no. It gave me dreams instead. They weren't-- they aren't nice dreams, but... When it all started I honestly didn't mind them. Every once in a while, I'd go to sleep, and then I'd just be... walking about my little dreamworld that was filled with the dying, and soon to be dead. It was a bit unnerving but... I dunno, I didn't really mind it, to be honest. Just one of those things I ended up learning to live with, I guess."

"But something changed, didn't it?" Something had to have changed.

Antonio nodded. "Yeah. Someone I loved showed up in my dreams, and that's when I found out that, even though I knew how they would die, and when, even where it would happen-- I couldn't stop it. For years, I thought maybe that had been the secret purpose of the dreams-- that since I knew how things would happen, maybe I could do something to change it, but... you can't stop the End. Can't slow it down, or avoid it, not without fulfilling some other purpose, and even then, how do you know that wasn't the original intent in the first place?" He paused, then started to pull away, brow furrowed. "I should leave."

Peter couldn't quite bring himself to pull away, not just yet. "What if you didn't leave? If the End wants you to go in that direction, what's stopping you from going the opposite?" He wasn't entirely sure why he was saying this. But he had the sneaking suspicion it was because he was bringing his own sentiments into the conversation. After all, he'd been born, raised, and offered up to the Lonely without a single person asking what he might've wanted. Of course now, he couldn't imagine his life following any other path, especially one that might leave him without his patron... but that didn't stop him from wondering on occasion. If he had been given a choice, would it have changed anything?

"You haven't been listening at all, have you?" Antonio said, pulling free and stepping away. "I can't just leave, Pete. I can't run away anymore; no matter where I go now, it'll still end the same way. The only difference is whether or not I'm willing to drag the whole ship down with me. The Coming End is being patient now, but don't think twice that It won't have a change of heart and take your ship out from under you and cause you and the whole crew to suffer for it. Taking a life before its time is easy, and happens more often than you might think."

Again, Peter had no idea why he felt the urge to argue. To even order the crew to keep Antonio aboard the ship while they made a turn in whichever direction and  _ tried _ . Peter fought the urge to speak, pressing a hand to his forehead as more thoughts crossed his mind, more arguments to be made, but they didn't sound like him, they... Through the fog in his head, he could hear his Aunt's voice, detailing a bit of vital news.  _ A faction of the Web has rigged a series of events in an attempt to end your life _ , she had said. And all it took was a split second for Peter to know what he should be looking for. "Where is it?" He looked around the ground at his feet, at the railing, and then at Antonio, who stared back at him with a startled expression.

"Captain? W-" But Antonio paused, eyes widening as he stared at... Peter's shoulder.

A rather large, brown spider had tried to make itself very small against his shoulder; yet it seemed to realize the ruse was up, and immediately tried to scurry its way down Peter's arm where he caught it, squeezing it between his fingers as he pulled it off his arm and glared down at it. Odd, wasn't it, that he recognized this spider, having not seen only once, but perhaps twice. The first, in the very bar he'd met Antonio in, but it also seemed to have the same streak of white across its backside as the one from Colón. "Got you."

Looking up, Peter saw that Antonio's expression didn't convey any affinity for the parasite. "I'm not gonna ask." 

"For the best, really." Peter replied, then promptly clapped his hands together, interlocking his fingers and squeezing his palms flat, feeling little resistance. Keeping his hands like so, he settled his gaze back on the man in front of him. "Well, I suppose you'll be heading out now."

"I... yeah." Slowly, Antonio raised his gaze from Peter's hands to look him in the eye. "Honestly, I'm not sure why I came up actually."

The man said it so casually, Peter actually felt a bit stilted. "You came here to apologize? For almost killing me?"

"Oh, right, yeah, I did do that--  _ almost _ did that, didn't I? Oops." 

Peter couldn't actually even pretend to be mad about it anymore. It was what it was; and it certainly hadn't been the first time someone had attempted to kill him anyways. "Oops, indeed." But before he could let the man leave, there was just one more thing he wanted to ask, unsure if he actually wanted the answer, or even cared to get it. "If I might ask... what is your name?"

"My name? Like... my real name?"

"No, by all means, I'd love to hear another fake one." Peter replied with deadpan sarcasm, but when it looked like the passenger was about to take him seriously, he reiterated, "yes. I would like to know your real name."

There were a few moments of silence, in which the man seemed to be coming to a decision before he gave Peter a response. "Oliver. Oliver Banks."

There was an odd familiarity to the name, and it took a second before Peter's eyes narrowed and he shot the man an accusatory look. "Oliver? Like the name you insisted I put on one of my ship models?"

"I-- okay, well in my defense, I didn’t insist, because I thought 'The Twist' was actually a pretty fetchin' name; and... honestly I don't think I was ever really planning on telling you my name, so..." Oliver shuffled his feet, not finishing his sentence.

"You really are something else," was all he could say. "Oliver?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"It's time to say goodbye, isn't it?"

Oliver seemed to have been drifting, little by little, further out of his reach. And while logically it was because he'd have to go that way to get back down to the main deck, it still made his chest feel tight for some reason. "Never really been much good at those."

Peter only nodded, hands still clasped in front of him so he couldn't even reach out one final time. But there was something about having Oliver leave only a moment later with saying anything more that felt… natural. Even if there still seemed so much more to say, even if it felt like a heavy stone was weighing against his chest, threatening to crack his ribcage to pieces. Despite it all, Peter still would not be able to shake the feeling that this could’ve been the last time he would see the Tundra’s passenger again.

He wanted to leave-- take off into the Forsaken and let himself become distant and numb to all of this. But he did not. He remained on the overlook, watching as Oliver and four faceless crew members boarded the chosen lifeboat and made their way down and away from the ship. As the distance grew between the Tundra and the lifeboat, Peter looked to his side to find Tadeas standing nearby, keeping careful track of the lifeboat through a set of binoculars. When he noticed Peter’s attention on him, Tadeas offered the binoculars to his Captain without saying a word. For a fleeting moment, Peter hesitated, eventually taking them in one hand. But before looking through them, he had a question for his first mate.

"Have you spoken to my Aunt recently."

Tadeas did not give away anything with his expression, remaining as stoic as per usual. "Ms. Persephone called in Colón, and a few nights ago as well." There was a distinct pause that implied the first mate had something more to add. "Mr. Laurence was also here, though I presume you are already aware of this."

Peter nodded, "you spoke to him as well, then."

"Yes."

Silence prevailed for a moment, and then Peter held out his left hand, in which was the thoroughly squashed and dead spider. "This isn't one of yours, is it?"

Tadeas humoured him by giving the dead thing an honest glance. "It is not, no."

He nodded again, finally letting the mess slip from his hand and fall onto the deck below the overlook. With any luck, perhaps the ship's cat might stumble across it and make damn sure it wouldn't be getting back up. "The threads, on the passenger, those were yours though, weren't they."

"That is correct."

Wiping his hand off on the leg of his trousers, he took the binoculars in both hands now. "And why, might I ask, have you gone through all this trouble to send the passenger off on his little escapade?" Looking through the binoculars as he spoke, Peter could only just make out Oliver's motions as he began shedding the pale threads from his clothes and neck, letting them drift away into the wind. All the while with his eyes trained in the direction of where the lifeboat was heading.

"My first priority has always been the safety of the Tundra. Letting him go unchecked was not an option, but allowing him to have his way would have resulted in negligence for my first, and second, priorities."

"And your second priority is?" Peter asked, as if he needed the reminder.

Of course, Tadeas was not hesitant in replying. "The safety of my Captain."

By now, the wooden boat had come to a stop, a little more than a kilometer out from the ship; Oliver now standing and ignoring the nervous faces of the crew with him as he seemed far too keen in surveying the waters around the boat. That is, until he would stop abruptly, tilting his head back to look skywards. 

Below the overlook, Peter would hear the sound of exclamations from the crew that had gathered on the main deck, and he would lower the binoculars, squinting up towards the cloudless sky. By the time he saw it, it was already too late.

Falling at a few hundred klicks an hour, a satellite would make direct contact with the distant lifeboat, and while the waves of the impact would rock the Tundra, She would remain entirely unharmed. A few degrees more to the south, or just a handful of meters closer, and the debris from the satellite likely would have caused irreparable damage to the Tundra’s hull and decks.

If the ship had been any other, or manned by a normal crew, their survival would have been hailed as a miracle. Peter would retreat to his cabin soon after, but not before giving the order to head out to the sight of impact to retrieve the bodies that were recoverable.

To his first mate, he would ask only that he be brought a full report on whatever the on-board medic could glean from the bodies recovered. He would not oversee the extraction, nor would he come to any conclusion as to what would be done with the bodies later. He left it all up to his first mate, and remained in his cabin as the ship would soon be kicked back into full power and steered towards their next port, to the west.

Tadeas would come to the Captain’s cabin, a few hours after they’d left Point Nemo, bringing with him the report Peter had asked for, and he would not stay past that. While the Captain read the short hand written report, he’d find himself sitting in one of his rattan armchairs, brow furrowed, and a scarf that had never been given to whom it was bought for in his hands. Twisting the fabric between his hands, he still found himself wondering if Oliver ever would have liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: gun violence, minor character death, major character death, our chubby little spider-friend is back too!, spider death. RIP lmao :|


	13. Epilogue: Terminus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's as a very wise person once said to me... "If you die, just get over it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the final chapter! This has been a delight to write, and a delight to work with [emperio!](https://twitter.com/emperiocism) who, if you haven't clicked that link to check out their other work... bruh. I get it, if you made it this far, it's probably because you read on a whim, and then you looked at the time, realized it was a 3am and you probably have work in the morning or something. But that's okay, take a nap, and when you wake up, the link will still be there, and you can check out their other work then.
> 
> No pressure though.
> 
> Enjoy the epilogue! Also mind the content warnings for this chapter. For those who want to know which content warning(s) specifically, I'll list them in the end note.

There was a numbness throughout him. A tangible feeling of pins and needles over every inch of his body. Yet, he couldn’t actually tell where he stopped, and where everything else began. He was numb. He had no idea when he’d come to, or how long he’d been awake; simply left drifting while his eyes rolled back and forth beneath his closed eyelids.

Soon, he would come to the realization that he was not breathing; such a natural action that he’d spent all his life doing, he couldn’t help but notice that he currently wasn’t. The numbness that pervaded seemed to recede, little by little, until he was acutely aware of his throat. He could feel the buildup of excess salt water grating against the inside of his throat, blocking his airway; and like that the numbness was gone, and he pitched forward, the coarse, grainy water slipping from his cracked and dry lips.

He rolled onto his side, choking out more water, hearing as it splashed against the floor, and there seemed to be an entire ocean flowing from him, until he came to a sputtering stop, finally gasping in air. Instinctively, he opened his eyes, blinking them open with some effort as dried crusted salt clung to his lashes and made his eyelids feel heavy. But he didn’t get the chance to take in his surroundings, yet again feeling something shifting in the back of his throat. And this certainly was not water.

Squeezing his eyes shut again, he choked on whatever it was rising from the back of his throat, rolling onto his stomach and bracing himself up with his arms. He wretched terribly, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he gagged, but unlike the water, whatever this was required more convincing to come out. Keeping himself braced with only one arm, he reached up towards his mouth, his fingers brushing against his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he managed to hook his fingers around something so shockingly cold, soft and almost rubbery. That alone almost made him wretch and pull his hand away, but he needed to get it out of him. So he latched his fingers onto it, feeling it squirm under his touch, but he wouldn't let it recoil as he tugged on it.

He choked, and sputtered as he got the tip of it out past his lips, curling his knees under him and pushing himself up enough that he could reach up with his other hand now, wrapping both around the rubbery black tendril and pulling. He could feel it shifting inside him, squirming against the back of his throat, all the way down until he noticed a weight pressing against his chest from the inside. He wanted to sob, but there was no room in his throat to make any noise aside from wet gagging. Finally, he felt the end of it, falling out past his lips and he coughed out at least a mouthful more of salt water and... other things. From phelgm to... he wasn't going to think about it, throwing the long stretch of tendril away from him and sitting back against the uncomfortable bench he'd woken up on. 

Shaking and gasping, he wrapped his arms around himself, rocking in place for... did it matter? Did any of this matter? Why... he couldn't recall anything leading up to the moment he'd started struggling to breath. Where was he? How had he gotten here, and why?

He finally managed to push himself around, carefully untucking his legs from underneath of him and placing his feet over the edge of the bench, and noticing there had been some sort of thin sheet covering him, but as he sat up it had slipped away, falling down to gather around his feet. He blinked slowly as he tilted his head to look down at himself, but his attention was split when his hair slipped down across his eyes-- the stark white of his curls making him recoil as if someone had shined a torch in his eyes.

With a shaky hand, he reached up, plucking at the curls and wrapping them around his fingers, examining the drastic change in colour. There had been a change, hadn't there? He wouldn't be that surprised if it had always been that colour, right? Whatever. He flicked his hair back out of his eyes, looking at his hands, where the skin looked cracked and grey but… no, it wasn’t his skin that was grey, it was just massive amounts of dried salt, layered and crusted across his hands and arms, and judging by how gritty and uncomfortable he felt all over, it wasn’t just where he could see it. He stretched out his arms, folding them at the elbow before extending them; the layers of dried salt cracked and flaked; entire chunks of it breaking away from him. And while this could all be considered rather visually appealing, he did not have the patience to sit here peeling off the salt piece by piece. It was tedious and all he really wanted… was a shower.

Now that was a thought he could focus on and get behind. 

He looked around the room now, squinting as he became aware that aside from a seemingly forgotten desk lamp, there were no other lights on in the room. And judging by the medkits and various equipment laying about, and how close the sound of the engines were; he could only assume he was in the ship’s medical room. Ah, the ship... what ship was that?

Shaking his head, he carefully began raising himself from where he sat; his clothing just as salty and stiff as the rest of him and all around just feeling very uncomfortable to move in. But now that he’d gotten a look about the room, the door not far from him should lead into a sort of ensuite bathroom of sorts; and with any luck it would have a shower in it.

He reached the door, leaning against the frame as he pushed it open with a shaky hand, peeking into the small bathroom, and was relieved to see a shower inside. it wasn't anything fancy, just a showerhead in the corner with a drain on the floor and thin curtain that could be pulled around. But that was fine; he really wasn't expecting anyone to be dropping by to check on him or anything, so privacy wasn't a concern.

He gave the room behind him one last glance, unsure of what he was looking for specifically, before he shuffled into the bathroom, not even bothering with closing the door as he made for the shower. Turning on the water, he started to carefully remove his soiled clothes, but soon realized his slow movements were entirely unnecessary. Once he was fully undressed, he ran his hands across his stomach, and over his chest, confused as to why there seemed to be no damage to his body. While he was still having trouble focusing his thoughts on anything that wasn't here and now, just by looking at the state of his clothes he knew something was wrong here. His short had been torn, left practically in tatters, but underneath... he was fine. Not even any bruising. The mark was still there, but... there was nothing else.

Steam began filling the room from the shower, so he tucked all those thoughts away, stepping under the scalding water without even noticing that it should have been far too hot for him to handle. Then again, maybe it was just too much of a relief to feel something warm against his skin, washing away all the built up salt residue and adding moisture back into his body.

There wasn't any shampoo, or conditioner anywhere nearby, or any fancy bottle of body wash, but there was a single bar of soap within arms reach, and he figured that was better than nothing. He scrubbed, and he scrubbed, until there was hardly even any of the bar left, and even then he felt the slightest urge to keep scrubbing his body; as though there was still another layer of... something that needed to be removed. But it was a miniscule impulse that was easy to ignore. 

Instead, he put what was left of the soap bar back, and leaned against the wall, feeling the water fall against his shoulders and down his back. Twice so far, he had to adjust the temperature to keep the water running hot enough to be to his liking; and while normally that would be a sign that he should turn it off and try getting his head back on right; he didn't want to leave the shower. Didn't want to know what was waiting for him when he stepped out of the room he'd woken up, to... remember whatever had happened that had landed him in this place to begin with.

That was when he felt something fall across his back. Something small, that wasn't water, but was just noticeable enough that it made him look up. The moment he tilted his head back though, he felt dizzy, and his vision went fuzzy as he swayed back, trying to grab hold of something so he might stay on his feet, but all he got hold of was the shower curtain, and that certainly wasn't going to stop him from falling.

But, it didn't feel like falling. It felt like there was a sudden weight against his chest, pushing him back. But it was just the water from the shower, wasn't it? But as he dropped, staring up at the ceiling, he remembered what had happened.

He remembered the ship, then the boat, and then the satellite.

He remembered looking up, noticing the sun was blocked out by something, before debris had hit the water around the little lifeboat, rocking it just seconds before the satellite had hit, shattering the boat and sending everyone aboard into the sea.

Had it been some sort of antennae that had skewered him through the chest, sending pain throughout his body as it shattering his sternum, and leaving him unable to move for just long enough, that by the time he noticed the rest of the satellite breaking the surface and bearing down on top of him, it was too late? 

He remembered the weight of it, cracking his ribcage and tearing through him like he was made of papier mache.

But despite all that damage, the satellite hadn't been the thing to kill him. After all that pain, and struggling, the current or what have you had eventually pulled him from under the satellite, and left him adrift, and still run-through. And there, broken and battered, with no feeling left in his limbs, and just far enough down that he would never manage to break the surface, he'd drowned. Asphyxiated by the rough salty water, and his last thought chiding him for not appreciating his last breath enough. 

The water had run cold by the time he managed to blink his eyes open without seeing the pitch dark of the ocean surrounding him. His head was throbbing from where he'd hit the shower floor, but aside from that, he was perfectly fine. No shattered bones, or satellite debris crushing him. No blood pouring out from open wounds, or a quiet, dark ocean gently tousling him about in its depths.

Oliver closed his eyes, breathing deep and feeling the rise and fall of his own chest. It would be a while longer before he'd manage to pull himself up, turning off the shower before rising to his feet. He kept a hand against the wall as he tiptoed away from the shower, looking around blearily for a towel, or... something to at least cover himself with. Preferably something other than the nasty clothes he'd taken off. 

In the end, his choices were a small towel that just barely covered the essentials, or the sheet that had been draped over him when the crew presumably had declared him dead. He stuck with the towel. After all, if luck was on his side, he doubted he'd be running into anyone in the time it would take to reach his cabin. Of course, it never crossed his mind that the cabin might no longer be his.

This wouldn't matter though, because when he made it although was from the lower floor, to the B deck, and opened the door to his room to find it exactly the way he'd left it. And he hadn't run into or heard the sound of a single person the entire trek up to that point. That being said, he was soon to realize that the room wasn't entirely the same as when last he'd been inside. Laying neatly on his bed were various things that he knew hadn't been in his cabin when he'd left. Because they'd been in someone else's cabin... you get it.

The first thing to catch Oliver's eye was his flannel shirt, which he quickly pulled on, expecting to be filled with a sense of warmth and belonging the moment the shirt that had belonged to his late father was over his shoulders. But no. It just felt like a shirt. A little depressing but... at least he still had something of the man. He quickly found a pair of trousers too, and discarded the towel into his own little bathroom. And upon returning, there was one more thing he noticed on his bed, something that he knew hadn't belonged to him, but was there among his things nonetheless.

It was a scarf. A warm shade of red, with some sort of design on it, and the fabric was soft in his hands. He unfolded it, holding it firmly between his hands as he stretched out his arms to get a look at the design on it. Something in the back of his mind tingled when he looked at the pattern of a tree in front of him. The way the branches bent and bowed was reminiscent of a willow, but no enough for Oliver to describe it as such; and really it was the roots of the tree that seemed to be the main focus, as the spread out across the fabric, the colour fading in a gradient that eventually matched the base colour of the scarf.

It was beautiful, and Oliver could only assume where such a gift might come from. But as he bunched it up in his hands, pressing the fabric against his face and idly taking a calm inhale, he pulled back. There was no lingering smell of stale earth, but that of The Captain's aftershave. _Oh_... a gift, but one from the ship's Captain. 

Oliver considered it for a moment, before draping it across his shoulders, pulling a corner up to his face and a thought crossing his mind. While he was more than certain he could hide out in this cabin until the ship reached whatever port it was heading towards, that... Well, it didn't sound like much fun. Spotting his slippers, he slipped into them, and headed for the door.

Ever cautious, he made sure no one else was in the hall, before he made the well remembered trek from his cabin, to the Captain's, pausing only briefly to check the handle of the door. Unsurprisingly, it was unlocked. After all, it wasn't as though the Captain was the type of person that would be expecting anyone to just show up and open his door.

Oliver went in, closing the door gently, before realizing that really hadn't been necessary. The Captain was there, but he was sitting on the stool facing his worktable, and a pair of earbuds in. Oliver almost laughed at the sight, noticing an old MP3 player sitting on the table next to the Captain's elbow as he seemed to be working on a ship model. Hopefully named the Twist, but Oliver couldn't be certain as, instead of marching across the room and making himself known, he settled into one of the rattan armchairs, the one that sat against the wall opposite the work table, so if Peter turned his head, even idly to glance back, he would have no trouble seeing that he wasn't alone.

But it would be quite some time before anything like that happened. Although, that was fine, Oliver could be patient, sitting relaxed in the chair and watching as Peter occasionally shifted but never once turning or making any movements that implied he knew someone was in the room with him. Finally, it was mere happenstance that Peter would find out he wasn't alone.

Apparently a song started playing that he wasn't too fond of, so he picked up the MP3, the screen flashing as he seemed to struggle with figuring out how to skip it, pausing for a moment once a new song presumably started playing. And then, the screen timed out, and even from where Oliver was sitting, he could see his own reflection flashing across the dark screen before Peter jumped, dropping the device to the floor, both earbuds popping out and following after.

Patient, yes, but he wasn't made of stone, so it took some effort not to burst into laughter as the Captain turned, oh so slowly, in his seat looking over his shoulder first, before he rounded entirely and faced Oliver.

Peter was staring at him, with the same heavy gaze Oliver had grown used to receiving from the man over the last few weeks of their companionship. All the early mornings and late nights spent in his company, Oliver could remember them all in acute detail; and the softness those eyes could purvey in the privacy of the same cabin they now sat in. There was no softness in those eyes tonight, though. No, right now, the only thing Oliver saw there was a deep suffering and confusion at seeing Oliver just sitting there, looking back at him with a serene expression.

“What’s wrong, Captain? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: brief memory loss, graphic description of severe injury, description of character death.
> 
> \---
> 
> Hey! You made it all the way to the end? That's bananas. Hope you didn't binge, but I can't control you, so... do whatever makes you happy.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Don't forget to drink water, take any pills you might need to take, and also eat some food if you haven't done so in awhile.
> 
> Self care is important! Thanks for reading!


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